On Scope

10

Kyle Swanson rapped on the door of the hotel room, and when Beth Ledford opened it, he stepped inside. She closed and locked it behind him and put her pistol back on the little table beside a vase of flowers. “This rain looks like it will be hanging around for a while,” he said.

Beth’s face was flushed, she had her hair swept back in a ponytail and was in a cutoff T-shirt that exposed her tight midriff, above cotton Victoria’s Secret pajama bottoms, gray with PINK in big letters across the butt. No bra, and her chest heaved from hard breathing. Damned near naked, he thought.

She stretched, ignoring his disdainful look. The usual man-woman sexual tension was there, but neither acknowledged it, knowing it wasn’t going to happen, not tonight or any other night. There would be no “friends with benefits” between the two predators. Coastie said, “I was watching the Weather Channel while I exercised. The forecast is for more rain over the next two days. De Lara may change his routine.”

Swanson went straight to the big window and looked out at the downpour that was sweeping over Madrid. “I found a good site for a hide,” he said. “A direct line of sight to his balcony. If this weather holds sour, then we need to be ready in case the target decides to run up to his sunny villa and play golf instead of waiting here. I want to get set things up tonight. Tomorrow may be too late.”

She walked up beside him and looked out, crossing her arms. Lightning bolts split the sky to the west. “Kinda dirty weather for a precision shot, Kyle.”

“It’s only about two hundred yards, Coastie. I’ve made up a good range card, and we’ll adjust for conditions once we are in position.” There was no discussion about who would take the shot; that belonged to Swanson. “OK. I’m going to get cleaned up and pack my gear, and you do the same. Boots and jeans, and be ready to stay there all night. Meet you at the truck in thirty mikes.”

They left the hotel by different doors at different times, pulling dark rain-cape hoods over their heads and with backpacks dangling from their shoulders. The few other pedestrians outside were all carrying wide umbrellas and hurrying to shelter, their faces down in the blowing rain, and no one gave them a second look. Kyle was waiting behind the wheel of the stubby black Renault Koleos SUV when Beth threw her pack in the rear and climbed into the passenger’s seat.

They were already mentally in the mode of special operators in unfriendly territory, although downtown Madrid was not at all similar to Pakistan or Afghanistan. To be discovered, arrested, and exposed would be a major diplomatic setback that Washington could ill afford. They put on latex gloves, which would prevent leaving fingerprints, and black wool beanies, which they would pull down to become masks with eye and mouth holes once they reached the building. In addition to the long waterproof capes and hoods, the extra gear would make them little more than shadows in the storm.

Swanson keyed the ignition, switched on the lights and wipers, and dropped the Renault into low gear. No cars coming. He drove away, following the map he had memorized. No more than fifteen minutes of safe driving within the speed limits.

“I saw something at the Reina Sofía Museum today that bothered me,” Coastie said.

“What?” Kyle thought she might have spotted someone on their tail.

“Guernica.”

“The Picasso painting? This is no time to be thinking about abstract art from the Spanish Civil War, Beth. Get your mind in the game here, and keep it there.”

“I couldn’t help it, Kyle. I studied that mural for fifteen minutes, and the longer I did, the more I saw, and the more it got to me.”

He flicked his eyes over and caught her staring at him.

“It’s about what happens to civilians in war, Kyle. Civilians. Like our targets. Are we really the bad guys in this?”

“No. The Group of Six is the enemy. No question.” He lowered his voice and slowed the vehicle, pulling to the curb and stopping to glare at her. “Am I going to have to replace you? I won’t let you screw up my mission.”

Beth waved both hands in front of her. “Of course not. I’m ready. I was just thinking about the painting, that’s all.”

“Think instead about these targets as being the people who are responsible for the attack on our consulate in Barcelona. They are noncombatants only in the sense that they don’t wear uniforms. Those assholes don’t care who gets butchered in the process of their financial and political schemes. Personally, I’m thinking about six dead Marines and the others who were killed and injured.”

“God, I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s get on with this.”

“You picked a hell of a time to start getting philosophical,” he said. “Just remember that Picasso was depicting the slaughter caused by Nazi bombing raids. I intend to stop another Guernica before it starts. Are you my partner or not?”

“You and me until the wheels fall off the wagon, bubba.” Beth Ledford returned his stare with a black frown of her own. “Drive.”

They rode the rest of the way in stony silence, trying to regain that quiet place in the zone, although both of their minds still buzzed with the brief altercation. There was plenty of vacant parking, and Kyle nosed into an empty spot more than a block away. They still didn’t speak as they got out, rolled down the masks, fixed the rain hoods, and hauled out their bags. Kyle locked the SUV by pushing a button and led off, Beth tracking right behind him as hard rain blew horizontally.

Getting into the building brought welcome relief from the downpour, and no one was at the construction site. Kyle headed straight for the stairs and up at a fast clip, not having to worry about creaking boards because the old stairway was made of heavy stone into which thousands of passing feet had carved grooves over the last century and a half. The walls seemed to shudder beneath the onslaught of the gale winds outside, and rain seeped through the many cracks. On the top floor, he motioned Coastie to come through and close the door.

She walked to the window, and all doubt vanished. The little balcony of Juan de Lara was in plain sight across two streets, flanked by lights that sparkled in the falling water. Kyle is right. This puppet master is overdue for getting his ticket punched. Ledford stepped back, unslung the shoulder bag and gave Swanson a thumbs-up sign.

Kyle Swanson had been here a thousand times. Lying on his belly behind a loaded, scoped rifle, ready to shoot. Most guys would prefer being on a couch watching football on television, but a sniper hide was Swanson’s real home, the place he felt most comfortable. His weapon tonight was a Heckler & Koch HK-416 variant of the trusty M-4 carbine, with a magazine of standard 5.56 mm rounds, the identical combination that he had used earlier to take down the target and bodyguard in Mallorca. It was almost like giving Spanish forensic investigators an autograph if they tested the bullets found in both places. The cops were sure to figure out the connection. The real message was intended for the remaining members of the Group of Six.

The pair of snipers made quick work of piling construction material, stained tarps, and old furniture about seven feet from the rear wall. Kyle would take the shot from beneath a small table on which lay a haphazard collection of old books and trash. At his left, Beth lay with a small pair of Zeiss binos at her face, focused on the door of the de Lara penthouse. Throughout the night, one of them would always have that door under observation.

He had dismissed Coastie’s earlier outburst, realizing that she was still coming to grips with the basic sniper dilemma of sorting through how to handle the bodies of those she killed. Swanson’s own mind had created the spectral Boatman to cart away the memories. Before that, he had endured the awful nickname of “Shaky” due to his postbattle habit of finding a quiet spot for a quick nervous breakdown. Since he’d met the Boatman, the big shakes had vanished. Ledford was dealing with it in her own fashion, still getting used to being the sharp end of the spear. Everybody in Task Force Trident knew the kid had talent, Kyle had seen her at work in Pakistan, and she had since been trained to be even sharper. He had no worries about Coastie.

The tempest raged throughout the night, and they were constantly reading the instruments and calculating the effects on the coming shot. The distance, gravity, and the added weight of the raindrops meant the bullet would be forced downward during flight, even over such a short distance, and the stiff wind was going to push it to the right. A soggy flag atop the target’s building was snapping like a whip. As dawn approached, they decided to compensate for a 12-mile-per-hour gust of wind and a two-inch drop, and Kyle dialed in the final aim point. The snipers remained hidden, unseen and silent, watching de Lara’s door and listening to the brash rhythm of the deluge. At dawn, a mist hugged the low ground.

Juan de Lara had been unable to sleep, wrestling with the rumpled bedsheets throughout the dark hours and drawing complaints from Marta. He had never liked the unrelenting overnight storms, because they made him recall his childhood fears of monsters in the closet and death creatures lurking under the bed. He finally quit trying when daylight began washing the room clear of such dread, and at six thirty he rolled his bulk to the side and heaved upright. Marta made a small sound as the bed bounced when he lifted his great weight from it. He turned on the bathroom light, did his business in the toilet, and moved on to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator and found a cold bottle of juice. Maybe the weather isn’t so bad by now, he thought. Maybe just a noisy drizzle. I’ll take a look and decide about going to work.

“Lights,” Beth whispered, pulling the binos tight to her eyes. “Somebody’s up.”

Swanson had been resting on his back, wide awake, and he rolled over easily to the stock of the rifle and got on scope. The door was still closed, the wind and rain continuing at the same intensity. A light came on in the main room, and Kyle eased the slack out of the trigger. The door opened.

De Lara wore a plush white bathrobe that hung untied over white pajamas, and his hair was mussed. He had a hand on each door and pulled them inward, thus framing himself in the portal, although he did not move onto the balcony. The rain was splashing hard on the tiles, and he did not want to get wet.

Kyle fired at the middle of the meaty chest, accepted the recoil of the M-4, and fired again at the same spot. De Lara winced in surprise with the first hit and looked down at the crimson bullet hole and the blossom of blood on the whiteness of the robe. The Spaniard crumpled to his knees, still holding the doors, and then the second shot struck and he collapsed. Kyle changed the aiming point slightly and carefully put a third round in the target’s head, shattering the skull.