“Do you have a place for just one person? I want to get a burger.”
The waitress, a round woman who had seen a lot of people, detected sorrow in the new customer. “Sure, I got a small table back by the kitchen. The guys won’t bother you much back there. C’mon.”
“Thanks.” Coastie followed her, conscious that she was being examined as a stranger intruding into a familiar environment. “Cheeseburger with no onion. A cold draft beer.”
The first pickup artist ambled over before the beer even got there. He had on his best blue Walmart T-shirt, made in China, and jeans that were tattered at the heels of his workboots. His eyes were deep and a bit unfocused. “Hey, you,” he said. “I’m Steve.”
“I’m Marie,” she replied softly, looking directly at the triangular face. “Where can a girl score some dope around here?”
Steve sat down uninvited, and the waitress returned with the beer. “That didn’t take long. If this asshole starts to be a problem, you let me know.” She went back to the bar.
“You a cop?” Steve wasn’t a stupid man. At least, he thought so.
“Absolutely. You got me,” Coastie said, and blinked a smile. “I’m working undercover for the government, and I’m here to take your guns.”
“You ain’t really, are you?” Steve was in love. “Can I buy you a drink?”
She lifted the full mug of beer. “I have a drink, you idiot. What I need is some good dope. Not marijuana. Coke. H. The sort with a heavy kick. You got any, or do I move on to somebody else?”
He screwed up his face in puzzlement. This conversation wasn’t going as he’d hoped. “How about trading for sex?”
“How about I stick this fork in your eyeball?” Coastie used the table knife to slowly saw the burger in half. She took a bite and a sip. “I got the money. You got product?”
Steve slowly looked around the bar. “See that big guy in the camo jacket? Looks like a fuckin’ dogwood tree? That’s Moose, and he’s a gooood friend of mine. He’s the best dealer around here. Me and him can meet you out by his truck — big black Dodge, left side of the lot — in ten minutes. You bring the money and he’ll give you whatever you need. Good shit, too. But what do I get for all this help?”
Coastie had another sip of beer. “Okay. After I get the heroin, I’ll flash my boobs. Good enough?”
Steve was thinking that, once out of sight, out there in the dark with the woods for cover, out there with his big pal Moose, more than that might happen with this smart-mouthed girl. Coastie was thinking that it was too bad she was going to have to kill this one, too.
She finished half the burger and half the beer, dropped two twenties on the table, and left through the kitchen door. Back at the SUV, Nero was waiting, smiling his toothy dog smile. Coastie got in, gave him a smooch, and they drove to a better parking spot on the opposite side of the parking lot from the big Dodge, shut down the engine again, and climbed into the back. With the seats out of the way, there was more than enough room for her to roll out the sleeping bag, and she used the space to give the rifle a final check. The grip and stock were a bit oversized for her, and it wouldn’t have been her weapon of choice, but it was okay. She racked in a thirty-round Magpul magazine.
She rolled half of the sleeping bag over her and called Nero, who came and lay beside her. Rifle ready, she pushed the button to lower the back window. The sight line from her to the Dodge was clear. Any expended cartridge would be contained within the truck bed. Coastie took a deep breath, rested her face on the rifle for a moment, thought of Mickey, then said, “Easy, Nero. This won’t take long.”
Two men came out of the bar, down the stairs, and walked, laughing, toward the truck. Steve was on the right, and a fat guy was on the left. Coastie could see the bulge of a pistol beneath his tight jacket. They went to the rear, and Moose unlocked and lifted the lid, then propped it open. He had a wagon full of dope, she concluded.
She breathed easily, let her heartbeat slow, clicked off the safety. Moose filled the sight picture of the scope. Nero whined softly and turned his head just as a big hand reached in, grabbed the barrel of the AR-15, and yanked it aside.
In his deep voice, Double-Oh Dawkins said, “Coastie, my friend, the bad news is that I can’t allow my guests to roam around murdering people on my turf, even if the targets are ignorant scumbuckets like Moose and Stevie. How long do you think it would take for the cops to figure out how a real sniper might have come into our midst? I would have to turn you in, testify against you in a murder trial, and send you to prison.” He gave Nero an easy head rub. “The good news is that you passed the test. Let’s go home.”
17
Hurry up and wait. It was a military mantra that everyone hated but no one could avoid. That, plus Murphy’s Law: If something can go wrong it will go wrong, and at the worst possible time. So a daring plan that had seemed so possible only a few hours earlier — Gibson’s idea for a lightning-strike parachute drop onto the likely hiding place of Nicky Marks — had eventually come to a jarring, complete stop, like a drunk walking into a lamppost. The arrival of the dawn forced a scrub.
Kyle Swanson stared into the cloudless blue morning sky above yet another runway. Perfect visibility for miles. Adjusted his sunglasses. “It ain’t going to happen, Luke. A daylight drop would be suicide.”
Gibson took a deep drag on his cigarette, then agreed. “Shit happens, but this mission is still worth doing. We’ll try again tonight.” For the first time, Swanson detected a note of urgency in Gibson’s voice, as if he were under some new pressure.
The CIA logistician, who had been having hourly heart attacks as the wheels fell off the original plan, asked, “Why don’t we just drone the sumbitch and be done with it?”
“We need to take him alive to answer a bunch of questions. Who’s he working for, why are they doing such lunatic things? I want those answers.” Swanson removed his sunglasses and wiped them on the tail of his T-shirt. Smears and scratches.
The frustrated CIA man chomped on a wad of gum. “Answer me this, Swanson. We’re stuck here in a puddle of Gorilla Glue and you get a FedEx package from London via overnight delivery. How the hell does that happen?”
“My company is very efficient.”
“I thought we were, too.”
“Both Excalibur and FedEx have to make profits, so they outperform any government better on routine stuff like on-time deliveries. I called and they answered.”
“What’s in it?”
Swanson lifted the lid on the long box that lay on the metal table. A titanium gun case winked in the sun. Opening that, too, he lifted out the latest version of the Excalibur sniper rifle and matching scope, hefted the lightweight .50-caliber weapon a few times, whipped it up to his cheek, then back down. “My personal weapon, molded and balanced to my features and grip, with electronic sensors to make sure only I can fire it. Wrong fingerprints or optical features and it won’t shoot.”
Gibson laughed. “He’s got a Death Star and I get a stick that goes bang. Doesn’t seem fair,” he said nervously, and flicked away his cigarette. “I want to get this show on the road. We’re running out of time, and the longer it waits the harder it’s going to be on the other end.”
“I know,” sympathized the CIA man. “We’re working on it.”