The Sniper and the Wolf

81

Crosswhite and Mariana didn’t have too much trouble climbing over the gate to the finca. He gripped the pistol in his hand as they made their way along the wall around the side of the two-story house. They had studied the satellite photos, and so they knew the general layout as viewed from above. There were bars over the windows, and the drapes were all drawn at ground level. They stopped at the side door, and Crosswhite looked inside. The kitchen was deserted, but the door was made of steel, and the window was equally barred.

“We have to go around back to the patio.”

They moved to the end of the house, and Crosswhite stole a look around the corner at the pool. It wasn’t large, only about twenty feet long and four deep in the shape of a rectangle. The still blue water shimmered in the sun.

“Will he have a gun in there?” Mariana whispered.

“He’s a fool if he doesn’t. Wait here.” Crosswhite stepped around the corner and onto the patio, keeping close to the wall as he made his way toward the door. He stopped at another barred window. The window was open, and the white drapes blew out through the bars with the breeze, suggesting there were more open windows elsewhere in the house.

A man sneezed just inside and then cleared his throat and sniffed, mumbling something unintelligible before clearing his throat again.

Crosswhite stepped in front of the window and pointed the 1911 pistol through the bars.

Peterson looked up from where he sat in a chair reading a book, his feet propped on a leather hassock four feet away from the window.

“You even twitch,” Crosswhite snarled, “and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.”

Peterson turned white, staring at the yawning maw of the .45. “How did you get in here?”

“Apparently I pay a helluva lot better than you do.” Crosswhite called for Mariana.

She came around the corner and looked in through the window, her anger and hatred boiling up unexpectedly. “Kill him!”

“Go check the door,” Crosswhite said quietly.

She went to the door. “It’s locked.”

“Look for another way inside.”

She slipped around the front. “Everything’s locked and barred,” she said, coming back around. “It’s like a prison.”

Crosswhite kept his eyes on Peterson. “Check the balcony.”

She stepped back from the house and looked up. “The door to the balcony is open.”

“Find a way up there.”

She glanced around. “There’s no ladder.”

“Find a way, Mariana.”

She went into the brick pool shed, but there was nothing of use in there either. “There’s nothing, Dan.”

Crosswhite stayed relaxed, but he knew that sooner or later, Peterson would make a move, and he’d have to make a decision. Firing the gun would be a risk. The cops outside the gate might get the bright idea of coming into the finca and killing him and Mariana; stealing the rest of the money and making up whatever story they liked. If the cop behind the wheel wasn’t such a cowardly type, Crosswhite would have half expected them to try it anyhow.

“Look for a key,” he said.

“Where?”

“How the hell do I know? But there has to be one. You don’t risk getting locked out of a fortress like this.” He noted the slightest change in Peterson’s eyes. “There’s a key! Find it.” He grinned at the CIA man. “Make a move, fucker. I dare you!”

Peterson just stared back at him.

Mariana searched the patio high and low, running her fingers along window ledges, turning over the patio chairs, and poking around in the flower garden with a fork from the table. She even looked for a loose tile, but there didn’t seem to be a key.

“Is there a lot of shit in the shed?” Crosswhite asked.

“Yeah.” She went back to the shed and stepped inside, pulling the chain to turn on the light. The little building was crammed with pool chemicals and old bags of flower fertilizer left over from the previous owner. There was broken patio furniture, stacks of spare tile left from when the pool was put in years earlier, and various jars containing odds and ends. On one of the shelves was an old metal tobacco can. She took it down and pried off the lid. It was full of nuts and bolts, but she pushed her finger around in it and couldn’t believe her eyes when she found a shiny new key at the bottom.

“I’ll be damned.”

She went back to Crosswhite, whispering into his ear that she’d found the key.

Crosswhite noted the increasing concern on Peterson’s face. “I’m going to give you the gun,” he told her, speaking deeply to cover the sound of him engaging the slide lock to safe the weapon. “If he makes a move, you shoot his ass. Is that clear?”

Mariana hesitated.

“I said, Is that clear?”

“Yes!”

“Put the key in my back pocket.” She did as he said. “Now stand next to me and take the weapon without moving it off target.”

They switched hands carefully, and Crosswhite stood behind her for a moment, helping her to steady the weapon. “I’m going in.”

He went to the door, and as he was putting the key into the lock, Peterson made his move.

Mariana pulled the trigger, but the weapon didn’t fire. Crosswhite swung the door open and ran inside, tackling Peterson on the tile as he was diving for the table where the .38 revolver sat in the open. He slugged the CIA man in the stomach and then hit him in the throat.

Mariana came running in with the pistol. “I tried to shoot him — I swear to God!”

He stood up and put the .38 in his back pocket. Then he took the .45 and tucked it away beneath his shirt. “Don’t worry,” he said, touching her shoulder. “You did perfect. I knew he’d make a move as soon as one of us started to open the door, so I put the safety on.”

Peterson started to choke and rolled to his side, holding his throat.

“I’d like to say you’ll be fine,” Crosswhite said, hauling him up by the hair, “but that isn’t true.” He slugged him in the stomach again and shoved him across the room. “Now I’m gonna tell you a story about a Mexican girl, you piece of shit.” He slammed Peterson down into a chair and took the folding knife from his pocket. “Her name was Sarahi, and she was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen…”

Five minutes later, Crosswhite and Mariana stepped out through the gate to the finca and walked across the street to where the cops still sat in the car. Crosswhite looked around and handed the cop the rest of their money wrapped in a dish towel.

“We arrived too late,” he said, “but I’m a man of my word, so I’m paying you anyhow.”

The cops looked at each other. “What are you talking about?”

“He committed suicide,” Crosswhite said. “Cut his own carotid artery. It’s an ugly scene in there.”

“I told you, no blood!” the driver hissed.

“And I just gave you another ten thousand dollars apiece!” Crosswhite hissed back, startling the cop. “The crime scene is perfect — so you make it work!”

They walked off down the street and got into Ernesto’s car, driving straight to the airport.

Mariana bought a ticket, and Crosswhite walked her to the security checkpoint. “How soon will you follow after me?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not before Pope is up and around again. I’ve got the sat phone, so I’ll keep in touch. When you get to Mexico City, don’t leave the airport. Get on the first available flight to the US — any city!”

She smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“I think so,” she said, feeling suddenly lonely. “I wish you were coming with me.”

He shook his head. “I’m not your type, Mariana.”

She put her arms around his neck. “Thank you for — for everything.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for.”

He watched her go through the security checkpoint, waved to her a last time, and went back to the car.

An hour later, Paolina opened the door to him, and the smile that spread across her face was like no smile anyone had ever smiled at him before.

“You know that I’m not a saint,” he said.

She reached up to touch his face, looking deeply into his eyes. “Every saint has a past, Daniel… and every sinner has a future.”