There was a momentary shock of recognition, then he took another slow drink and told the guard, “Bring her over, then call for some more men.”
Coastie wore low black heels, black slacks, and a gray top, with no jewelry except a Samsung Gear S2 Smartwatch. She allowed a quick pat-down by the guard, who then escorted her to the table. Guerrera didn’t get up, or offer a hand in greeting. “I am the widow of Colonel Miguel Castillo,” she said, sitting uninvited directly across from him.
“I know who you are.” Most people trembled in his presence, but not this one. In fact, she made him nervous. “What do you want?”
“A telephone number for Luke Gibson, the American,” she said, her eyes hard and level. “Give it to me now and I walk out and nothing more will happen.”
“Go away, woman,” he snapped. “I have never heard that name, and I would never hand anything over to you. I know of your past life and exploits, señora. My guess is that you are currently an agent of the U.S. government.” He was starting to sweat because she remained so calm.
“I represent no one but myself. You and Gibson took something precious from me — the life and reputation of my husband. I offer you this chance for redemption.”
Guerrera laughed. “How generous. Or what?”
“I begin taking precious things from you. Last chance.”
“Go fuck yourself, cunt.”
She glanced at her wristwatch and tapped the small screen several times. “Sorry to hear that answer. It was crude. So now we have to wait a few minutes.”
Two miles from them, on the leeward side of the island, a lightweight torpedo had been idling two hundred meters from the Vagabond. On her computerized command, the six-hundred-pound beast that had been brought along for testing surged forward, the course adjusted from the bridge of the yacht.
“You are wasting my time.”
“Just another minute. I understand that my husband was in a dangerous business, but why the desecration of his grave?”
“Business. I had to send a message to the government that they should ease their efforts.” He shrugged.
“You are an animal.” Her watch blinked red. “Now say goodbye to your Valeria.”
The torpedo slammed a hundred-pound warhead into the sailboat with thunderous results. The explosion rocked the waterfront, set several other boats aflame, and rained debris like hard, sharp snow. Maxim Guerrera jumped up, spilling his beer, and stared like a stricken child. The Valeria was gone, leaving behind nothing but smoking and burning wreckage. By the time he sat back down and stared at Coastie, she had laid another note on the table.
“You bitch! You murdered my crew!”
“Just business,” she replied. “Read the note. Every five minutes now, something else belonging to you, something you hold dear, will disappear, just like your little sailboat. Give me Luke Gibson’s number and I will stop it all now. Otherwise, the clock continues to tick. Let’s see, Maxim, the next target is Espada. Four minutes.”
She sat back, contented. The smoking ruin of the sailboat was an inspirational view.
“How?” he gulped. Espada was his favorite polo pony, an Argentine-bred champion with a bold personality. Polo was another game that Guerrera loved, a game for the rich, and he owned a whole string of ponies, but Espada was a bruiser on the turf. He didn’t believe her; this had to be a bluff. How could these people harm the ponies, which were stabled at a mountain ranch several hundred kilometers away?
“Never mind that. After the horse, the next item on my list will be your boat on the far side, the Maria. The bomb is already aboard. Then we move on to real people, starting with your son, Carlos, in California. As long as you want to play, Maxim, I have targets enough for an hour. I really don’t want to kill those horses. Give me the number. Two minutes.”
“Like hell I will. You wouldn’t dare. I will see to it that every drug lord in Mexico declares war on you. Stop this madness or I will kill you right here.”
“The program goes on automatically and cannot be stopped if I am harmed in any way. Time is up. Say goodbye to poor Espada.”
They sat locked in mutual hatred until the cell phone rang in his pocket. He listened quietly, asking only, “All of them?” When the answer came, his grim face fell apart. The supervisor of the mountain ranch had reported that a missile with multiple warheads had struck the facility, killing the ponies and wrecking the training complex.
“After we are done with the physical things, we will dismantle your operation, freeze your funds, and make a deal with your bother drug lords to put your ass in a maximum-security federal prison. Or just kill you. I haven’t made up my mind yet. The Maria in four minutes.”
Guerrera retrieved his telephone and went to the list of contacts, selected one, and spun the screen to face Coastie. It was listed as the Big Thunder Ranch, with a U.S. calling code. “That’s the answering service. I call him and leave a message. It is all I have, señora. I don’t know where he is. Please make this stop. Please.”
She tapped her wristwatch phone and read the address and number to Swanson. “Hold on further attacks until I return safely,” she said, then walked from the restaurant without another word.
33
Kyle Swanson was two blocks away, in an overwatch position buried deep in the tangled shadows of a second-floor corner room. An Excalibur sniper rifle was braced on a bipod anchored to a table and snug against his shoulder. O. O. Dawkins was at his side, getting a larger view than Swanson had through the big weapon’s scope. Both saw Coastie walk away from the dockside restaurant. Swanson remained locked to the entranceway to the restaurant she had just left. So far, so good, but Swanson doubted it would stay that way.
Maxim Guerrera had been stung badly by Señora Ledford, and his fiery temperament would not let such an insult stand. He would rather lose everything than be disrespected. Guerrera had given up the Big Thunder information because he didn’t give a damn about Luke Gibson. Now he had to strike back hard and fast, or word would get out that the drug lord had been bested by a woman.
Some members of Guerrera’s guard detail had been killed in the boat explosion, but others were rushing to shield him. The single close bodyguard heard the boss yell, “Grab her!” Guerrera was gambling with fate, but if he could get his hands on her now she could be used as a hostage. “Alive!” he shouted.
Double-Oh dropped the binos and bounded down the stairs with a compact H&K MP7 in one hand and a flash-bang grenade in the other. Swanson didn’t move, except for controlling his breathing and toucing his finger to the trigger.
Coastie broke into a sprint when she heard the shouting behind her. Looking back would be a waste of time. By lunging forward to chase her, the perimeter bodyguards abandoned their protective posts, but were still scattered, so she slowed a bit to let them catch up.
For that instant, Swanson’s world was sniper silent, a private place in which he was alone with the target, and Maxim Guerrera, with a sun-reddened, angry face, stood still, awaiting the capture of the woman. Swanson caressed the trigger, pulling straight back, and the broad, loud voice of Excalibur spoke in its definitive .50-caliber vocabulary. Maxim Guerrera, one of Mexico’s most vicious criminals, took the shot in his broad chest, and it destroyed his insides. He slumped to his knees and held the position long enough for Swanson to take a second shot that snapped the man’s skull as if it were an egg.
The bodyguards froze at the booming sounds that rolled out over the bay, and Coastie reached the hide house, passing Double-Oh, who was exiting. Dawkins flung the grenade into the street and ducked back into the doorway before the detonation. Then he tossed a smoke grenade, just to confuse things even more. “You ready?” he shouted back to her.