Ghost Sniper: A Sniper Elite Novel by Scott McEwen, Thomas Koloniar

tattooed man asked.
    “Shit,” the Russian muttered, wiping his mouth. “Let her in.”
    The other man opened the door, and Lena came into the room. Her eyes grew wide when she saw Gil taped to the chair, naked and bleeding from a gash over his eye.
    She wheeled on the Russian, hissing in English: “What the fuck are you doing?”
    “This man is CIA,” the Russian said. “He—”
    “Of course he’s CIA, you stupid fool! Where do you think Sabastian gets his intelligence? From barbarians like you? Let him loose from that chair—now!”
    The Russian gestured lamely at Gil. “He—”
    “He what ?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips.
    The Russian was about to tell her that Gil had stolen thirteen of his sex slaves six months earlier, but he suddenly realized that Sabastian Blickensderfer—a billionaire weapons dealer—couldn’t care less about such things. “I didn’t know he was here with Blickensderfer.”
    “You’d better get your men out of here.” She moved toward Gil’s chair. “I have to get this man cleaned up before Sabastian finds out what you’ve done to him. He’s supposed to be under Sabastian’s protection! How do you think this makes my man look in front of the CIA?”
    Browbeaten, the Russian gestured for his men to leave the room. “We had no idea.”
    “Fine. Just go.” She began stripping the tape from one of Gil’s wrists. “Get out!”
    The Russians left, taking the black valise with them, and she quickly freed Gil’s wrists and ankles.
    He peeled the tape from his mouth and got to his feet. “What are you doing?”
    “Saving your life, obviously.” She grabbed his pants from the floor. “Hurry and get dressed. The second Sabastian finds out about this, they’ll be back.”
    He began to get dressed. “They work for Sabastian?”
    “They’re regular customers.” She handed him his shirt. “They buy guns. I didn’t know they were here until I saw them down in the lobby, but I knew they weren’t here to see Sabastian, so that left only you— because they sure as hell don’t ski .”
    He put on his shoes, grabbed the Springfield from the dresser, and slipped it beneath his jacket.
    “So you’re CIA,” she said, looking at him, a half smile on her face.
    “Kinda.” He moved toward the door. “How soon before they talk to Sabastian?”
    “About this? Hopefully never. But I guess that depends on what you did to make them mad.”
    Gil recalled that, in addition to flipping the Russian the bird at the airport, he had also mouthed the words Fuck you , making it even more personal. “I’m guessing it probably won’t be too long.”

13
    AJIJIC, MEXICO
    13:30 HOURS
    Without telling anyone other than Paolina where he was going, Crosswhite hopped an early Volaris airline flight to the city of Guadalajara, northwest of Mexico City, to meet with a CIA/ATRU agent he trusted. Agent Mariana Mederos had agreed to meet him in the American retirement community of Ajijic near Lake Chapala, where Crosswhite wouldn’t look out of place. Chapala was the largest freshwater lake in the country; dozens of launches were tied up along a concrete pier that tourists could hire to take them for rides along the shoreline.
    Crosswhite had worked with Mariana in both Mexico and Cuba the previous spring, eliminating two key traitors to the US government who had attempted to assassinate both CIA Director Robert Pope and Crosswhite’s best friend, Gil Shannon.
    They met in a restaurant overlooking the lake. “Thanks for coming down,” he said.
    “It’s no trouble.” Mariana was a Mexican American in her early thirties, with dark hair that she usually wore in a ponytail. “Pope’s got me based out of Austin now. He wanted me in position to help you if anything happened down here. I swear that man has a sixth sense. He told me last week that Downly coming down here was a bad idea.”
    Crosswhite signaled the waiter. “I joke about Pope having superpowers, too, but he’s