Scott McEwen, Thomas Koloniar
Ghost Sniper
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the memory of the thirty Americans who lost their lives in Afghanistan on the mission Extortion 17, including seventeen members of SEAL Team VI. It was the most devastating loss of life in the history of the United States Navy SEAL teams. Some of these men were personal friends of mine. All of them were warriors and patriots of this nation. Respect.
PROLOGUE
Gil looked over at his best and often-reckless friend.
“So tell me about this girl.”
Crosswhite took a drag from a cigarette. “Not much to tell.”
“I know better than that. You moved to a communist country to be with her, for Christ sake.”
“It’s actually not all that communist anymore — just dirt poor.”
They were crossing a storage lot on the outskirts of Paris, not far from the rail yard where Gil had had his first run-in with Chechen sniper Sasha Kovalenko.
“So you’re not gonna tell me about her?”
“Well, she’s a little younger than me.”
“How young?”
“Twenty-one.”
Gil whistled. “Twenty-one’s a good age.”
“She wants to get married soon — have a baby.”
“You should do it,” Gil said, lighting a cigarette of his own. “Be good for you.”
“The idea of havin’ a kid freaks me out. And what happens when you get yourself in another jam? Who’s gonna save your ass?”
“Don’t use me to try and wriggle out of it,” Gil said. “Besides, I was just in another jam. You were nowhere around.”
“Yeah, and you damn near died, from what I hear.”
“I damn near died the other two times.”
Crosswhite stopped and turned to face him. “Fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Means I think you should get married and have a baby, dumb-ass.”
“Yeah,” Crosswhite said with a sigh. “Sure.” They set off walking again. “She’s Catholic. I gotta start goin’ to church on Sundays. I hate fuckin’ church.”
“It ain’t gonna kill ya. You’ll have to stop with the drugs, too.”
“Already did. You talk to Marie lately?”
Gil became immediately sad at the mention of his wife. “She doesn’t want me back until I’m out for good. And I just ain’t ready to quit.”
“You know these young guys comin’ up,” Crosswhite said. “They’re faster, stronger, more dangerous than we are.”
“I know it, partner, but I ain’t ready.”
They arrived at an orange overhead garage door with a big white number 9 stenciled on the front of it.
“So what the fuck do you suppose is gonna be in there?” Crosswhite wondered aloud. “A booby-trap?”
Gil tossed the cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. “I doubt it.”
“You’re absolutely positive you don’t wanna tell Pope about this first?”
“Yeah.” Gil stepped forward, inserted the key in the lock, and gave it a turn. The door went up automatically, and both men stood staring.
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Crosswhite said.
The phone in Gil’s pocket rang.
“Hello?”
“So what’s behind door number nine?” Pope asked.
Gil glanced up at the sky, not at all surprised. “I think you’d better get on a plane and come have a look for yourself.”
Robert Pope, director of the CIA, arrived in Paris the next day, returning with Gil and Crosswhite to the storage unit.
Gil inserted the key into the electric lock, and the door rose slowly, revealing numerous ammo and weapons crates stacked at the back. What caught Pope’s attention, however, was the wooden workbench against the wall with a large lump sitting on top of it covered with a green canvas tarp.
“The crates are full,” Gil remarked.
“What’s under the tarp?” Pope asked.
Grinning, Crosswhite stepped in and pulled it back, revealing two hundred neatly stacked bars of shiny gold bullion. Each bar was stamped “1000g/999.9 Gold.” He watched Pope’s eyes for any hint of shock or surprise, but there was none.
“How many bars?” Pope asked.
“Two hundred,” Gil replied.
Pope did the math in his head. “That’s almost nine million dollars. Close the door and give me the key.”
Crosswhite shot a startled glance at Gil and then back at Pope. “What the hell are you talking about—give you the key?”
Pope didn’t reply.
“Come on out,” Gil said quietly.
“Hey, this puts us on easy street!” Crosswhite said. “Mission complete. Game over. Winner takes all!”
“This puts us in business,” Pope said, his blue eyes piercing. “Now close the door and give me the key.”
“Gil, what the fuck?”
Gil turned the key.
The door began to close, and Crosswhite stepped out quickly, incredulous. “Don’t tell me you’re down with this. You’re gonna let him take all of it for himself?”
Gil took the key from the wall and handed it to Pope. “Let’s go. We got a plane to catch.”
1
Chance Vaught stood in the back hall of the US Embassy in Mexico City, talking with Bill Louis, US ambassador to Mexico. A former Green Beret with eight years of combat experience in Iraq and Afghanistan, Vaught was now working as a special agent with the US Diplomatic Security Service (DSS). Currently, he was the special agent in charge of security for Alice B. Downly, the director of the Office of National Drug Control Policy. The “drug czar.”
“So you’re telling me we have to run the gauntlet between here and the Mexican senate building?” asked Vaught, thirty years old, with green eyes and a black goatee set in a Latin visage. “I thought the entire week was scheduled for here in the embassy. What the hell happened?”
“Between you and me?” Louis lowered his voice. “Downly offended the Mexican delegation yesterday — namely, Lazaro Serrano. First by suggesting they allow US Special Forces teams into Mexico to act as advisors in their war against the cartels, and then by implying the teams would operate independently — the same way our operatives did down in Colombia back in Pablo Escobar’s day.”
Vaught rolled his eyes in disbelief. “Comparing Mexico to Colombia — very diplomatic.” He took a can of Copenhagen tobacco from the cargo pocket of his trousers and put a dip into his lower lip. He was sure that the security at the Mexican senate building — known in Mexico as La Casona de Xicoténcatl — would be tight, but he would have zero control there. Meetings held off US Embassy grounds were always cause for heightened anxiety, and it was a growing problem for the DSS all over the globe. After the Osama bin Laden — orchestrated terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, billions of American dollars were spent fortifying US embassies, making them look more like super-max prisons than houses of diplomacy, and many foreign diplomats simply refused to meet in the blocky, fortresslike structures. This forced American diplomats to take meetings in less secure locations — like this morning, for example.
“It’s only two miles.” Louis, a round man in his forties, bald, with pale blue eyes. He was fluent in Spanish and understood Mexican culture very well. “They’re sending the usual federal escort — two trucks, four motorcycles — and with our three vehicles, that’ll be plenty. It’s only an eight-minute ride.”
Vaught had seen the world go to shit in eight minutes.