He went to a little café nearby and took a table, gave the snotty waiter his order, then opened his phone. No message from Swanson. Where was he? Gibson called the local CIA. They had nothing other than that Swanson was due in Washington that afternoon via Lufthansa to Dulles. That ain’t gonna happen, Gibson mused, but didn’t say anything. He looked out over the broad avenue. It was a beautiful morning in Berlin, and even the abrupt service by the waiter couldn’t really put Gibson in a foul mood, because he was learning things.
Working with Kyle Swanson was going to be difficult if Swanson didn’t want him along. That was why Gibson hadn’t put up a fight over being dismissed as a partner. The fuckin’ super-sniper works alone. Okay, so be it. There would be less resistance when Swanson had to reach out for beans or bullets and Gibson would be there to help. It wasn’t as if Swanson had a lot of choice in the matter if he wanted to keep the operation secret. And in the background lurked the evil specter of Nicky Marks. Gibson willed himself to be patient, to ride it out. Good things would eventually happen.
Gibson bit into a monster of a Berliner, the mother of all doughnuts, and felt the sugar rush. Tourists wandered by, maps in hand. Gibson drank coffee, which perked him up even more. He should be mad at Marty Atkins, if anyone. The director of intelligence had turned to him for the premier assignments until Swanson came along. Nowadays, he was lucky to get a high-value job at all, and the new guy got the best assignments. There was no use trying to convince himself that Swanson wasn’t a great shooter, but Gibson doubted that the former marine was actually better overall at the job. For one thing, Gibson was younger, and trigger time wasn’t the only measurement. He believed Swanson had lost his edge, a victim of age who was pulling along the clanking debris of a long and difficult military life. Swanson was almost a dour old prisoner in a golden cage, while Gibson considered himself to be a free spirit who was current with the times and in his prime.
The bottom line was that Marty Atkins worshipped the guy. Gibson was number two. It was a hard place to find himself after being number one for so long. He finished his breakfast, flopped some bills on the table, and walked back to the hotel parking lot to retrieve the rental car. Like any good hunter, the sniper knew the secret was patience; he would just let Kyle Swanson come to him. Meanwhile, where the hell was he?
Swanson was halfway to London, relaxed in a premier seat aboard the Eurostar train that was dashing beneath the English Channel. He had left the Radisson Blu and caught the 10:14 PM City Night Line overnight sleeper to Paris. The train rocked him to sleep in a deluxe cabin, and less than fourteen hours later he was transferring to the Eurostar for London, and enjoying un petit déjeuner of strong coffee and a warm croissant. He wasn’t hiding, exactly, but he also hadn’t told anyone where he was heading. No use in advertising his whereabouts unnecessarily.
After reading a newspaper, Swanson plugged in his laptop, hooked up to the train’s onboard Wi-Fi, and from that to a private server, to send a text message to Beth Ledford. France was seven hours ahead of Mexico, so it was midnight for her. The Skype app remained off because he didn’t want to be overheard, and she probably wouldn’t want to be seen.
You awake? If not, call me first thing in the morning.
He hit the Send key and waited. There was a ping of response as Coastie came online, and they slid into a silent conversation.
Hi. I’m still up. Can’t sleep hardly at all. U kno?
I know. Where are you?
At Mickey’s cousin on the Yuc Peninsula. Secure. Mama C is still hurting, but will pull thru. Where u?
In Europe on business. I wanted to check on you. Remember that job offer?
Sure. Sounds good. I’m not quite ready to come up yet. Tying up some loose ends down here. It is hard, Kyle… I miss Mick so much. Cry a lot. I’m still training, tho.
Natural to cry. You’re just about where you’re supposed to be in the grieving process, Coastie. Staying busy will help. I want to move up your timetable. Things have changed.
????
I need a bodyguard. Can’t give details by text.
WTF?!?
Same guy from the funeral tried again in Berlin. Situation urgent. Please get up to Washington SAP. Excalibur pays well.
OK. Just a few more days here.
Good. See you in Washington. Tnx and bye. Get sleep.
Swanson closed the laptop with a sense of quiet satisfaction as the train rushed through the Chunnel on its two-hour-and-fifteen-minute journey. The iPod music fed a playlist through the earbuds and helped him calm his mind.
He thought about Luke Gibson, how he seemed to be a nice guy and how he was obviously good, or else Marty Atkins wouldn’t be using him. And he had proved his fast reflexes in the grenade attack. Swanson was already ducking away when the device was thrown, but Gibson had moved even faster. Age? So, yes, maybe they could work together, as long as Swanson got to make the decisions.
The real problem wasn’t with Gibson as an individual. The Marine Corps had been Swanson’s home for many years, and that meant he could always trust his fellow marines. It was automatic. It was why after moving on to other pursuits in life marines always had a bond with other marines. The brotherhood was tight. Luke Gibson wasn’t a marine. He may not have been anything.
Coastie wasn’t a marine, either, not really. Task Force Trident was mostly a marine special-ops outfit when she came aboard from the Coast Guard. It was a tight family of equals, all superior at their jobs, and she had fit right in and might well have worn the Corps’ eagle, globe, and anchor insignia. The big thing at the moment was that she wasn’t with the CIA, either. Swanson intended to cross up whoever was the behind-the-scenes master of this morbid game by bringing in a ringer.
More out-of-the-loop help was waiting at the other end of this train ride. Gibson didn’t need to know any of that.
Beth Ledford turned off her cell phone and put it away for the night. She would never carry it on a mission, because the accidental push of a button might result in unwanted beeping or lights flashing at the worst possible time. She checked herself in the full-length mirror mounted behind the door of her bedroom. It was good that Kyle hadn’t wanted to Skype, because she would have had to refuse, claiming modesty or some other lame excuse. He probably would have wanted to know why her face was striped in nonreflective green and black camo paint, why her yellow hair was tucked beneath a black knit watch cap, and why she was dressed in a black shirt, jeans, and boots. That made her smile as she gave a final check to the Sig Sauer P226 handgun that she had chosen for the night. It was a bit big for her hands, but it was reliable. Having personally polished each of the dozen .40 S&W cartridges, she pushed in the magazine and locked one in the chamber. No need for a holster. Coastie shoved the pistol into the waistband of her jeans.
Another one of Mickey’s boys, a sergeant, was waiting for her with the car and made no comment when she climbed inside. The entire squad backed the señora’s quiet campaign of revenge for the death of her husband. The little woman was a serious warrior.
The first hit in the forest had taken out a middleman distributor belonging to the Villareal Organization. Tonight she would dispose of a leader of the rival Beltran Brothers tribe. Neither gang was a major cartel, but they were growing and were always ready to protect their turf through bullets, knives, acid baths, or beheadings. Coastie wanted to spark a fight and let them kill one another rather than her having to do it. She figured she could do her new job with Kyle in Washington and still get down to Mexico on vacation. After all, she had family here.