Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

“It ain’t about a witch hunt. There wasn’t no witches, right? But maybe Cruz does have enemies. And maybe they’re our enemies too. I don’t have no dog in this fight, I ain’t here to steal turf from any outfit called by its initials. I’m here for the truth, and I’m going to find it or look for it until you put me in the bag.”

“God, he’s a stubborn man,” said Susan. “In Tokyo, he went and fought a master swordsman who should have sliced him to shreds. No one could talk him out of it. You cannot talk to the man when he’s like this. It’s like arguing with a forest fire!”

“I want to work this angle, and I gave him my word.”

“The truth is, your word means nothing,” said Nick. “You were not authorized to make commitments. You don’t represent the Bureau.”

“My word means nothing to you. It means everything to me, especially to another sniper.”

“You are so fucking stubborn!” screamed Nick. “It’s like beating your head against a gun stock.”

“It’s a sniper thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

“This is the real world, not a Boy Scout jamboree.”

“Listen. Cruz ain’t going to go again,” Bob argued. “I got that from him. That’s his concession. The next public outing is Sunday, Zarzi’s run of talk shows in DC. He ain’t going to try nothing then. He gave me his word. I gave him mine. So get me out to Creech.”

“Creech is off-limits,” said Susan.

“What’s Creech?” asked Nick.

“It’s an Air Force base north of Vegas where they run the drone war,” said Susan. “It’s where our snipers go to play life-and-death video games with terrorists, gunmen, IED teams, high-value targets, and the like. It’s where the real hunting and killing take place.”

“Nick, get me out there with some smart partner agent to cover my rough edges and let me sniff around. Say an American asset was killed in the explosion in that hotel and some outfit is bringing heat on our asses. They’ll let me on, strictly pro forma, give me the tour. They ain’t going to tell me nothing, not up front. But if I’m there and it gets out what’s being looked into, something may shake out of the trees. Then I can find out if in fact they did put a missile into that hotel.”

“Agh,” said Nick to no one.

Then he said, “Susan, I don’t see how I can say no. He’s a hero. They like him upstairs. And he has found Cruz twice and neither of us has even come close with all our resources. And sometimes he’s right.”

“Been known to happen a time or two,” said Bob.

“You are such a bastard,” she said evenly to Bob. “You are taking this exactly where my orders are to prevent you from going.”

“But you know it’s the right thing.”

“I told you. I went over the records very thoroughly. This shooting off of missiles isn’t casual, you know. Everything is recorded, everything is documented, every shot is noted as to operator, intel validity, time frame, and result. It’s not like the Mexican revolution, bang bang bang, with everybody shooting everything at once all over the place drunk on tequila.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Bob. “But there may be secrets within secrets. Black ops so black records don’t exist. Skunk works shit, black bag shit, wet work, all that ugly crap that spy outfits been doing for four thousand years. It’s in the Bible, even. I’m no expert but maybe I can find something somehow, some way. Maybe you could too if you tried again.”

“You’re telling me I should start prying in locked drawers in Langley,” she said. “I should spy on the spies. I am a spy.”

Swagger was filled with doubts. Maybe this was all bullshit he’d dreamed up to engage her and from there make the leap to something else. It was how the cunning male-sex mind sometimes worked. Goddamned Asian women, he couldn’t get over them, and that brought up a long-dead, bourbon-soaked ache best not addressed now or ever. He also knew he was still fundamentally exhausted, the confab with Cruz who’d caught him cold was upsetting to say the least, and this whole Washington game was more complex than he’d imagined. He’d been the lone gunman, the tall-grass crawler, and now he was exactly where he didn’t belong, in a soup of confusing loyalties, some of them even within his own mind.

So: when in doubt, press ahead blindly and pray for luck and God’s delight in the reckless.

“You know these people. You go to backyard barbecues with ’em. You could ask around.”

She shook her beautiful head.

“I don’t know anything. I never had this discussion, I don’t know a thing about anything.”

“But you won’t rat me out?”

Her silence meant that no, she wouldn’t rat him out, but it also meant that she hadn’t remembered until that moment what an asshole he truly could be.

INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

CELL PHONE PARKING LOT

1900 HOURS

THE NEXT DAY

Vegas?” said Mick Bogier.

“Yep. Him and this chick. Pretty gal. Maybe the old coot has some Pez left in the dispenser after all. Off to Vegas for a weekend of whoopie. Been known to happen.”

It was Crackers the Clown who’d dogged Swagger, watching him check in with the young woman, head through security and on to a gate. Crackers had pulled a Baltimore police detective badge and gotten through security without a hassle from TSA and followed him all the way to the gate. Now he was on the cell to Mick and Tony Z.

“Unlikely,” said Mick, “this guy’s too duty-crazed.”

“I hate that kind,” said Crackers. “All work and no fun. What, he wants to be a saint?”

“Let me make a call.”

Even before he put the cell down, Tony handed him the Thuraya phone.

“This better be good news,” MacGyver said. “I’m about to make myself a martini.”

“We followed Swagger to the airport. He’s about to fly to Vegas with some young agent. I don’t know what it’s about.”

MacGyver considered.

“We could get the next flight out,” said Mick. “Then we pick up the signal in Vegas and we follow him there. But I don’t know what Cruz would be doing in Vegas or what Vegas would have to do with Cruz. Cruz is here, we know that.”

“I can find out,” MacGyver finally said. “But that’s going to take a while. No, I’d stay in DC. I’d set up somewhere in the vicinity of the talk show studios this Sunday and get ready to roll if there’s an incident.”

“Sure, but that’s thin. This Sergeant Cruz is really good. I mean, he’s fucking big league all the way. The chance of us nailing him before he nails Zarzi without Swagger bird-dogging him first are somewhere between thin and negative one million. Since he’s riding the action curve and we’re trailing it, we’ll be lucky to get there when the smoke is still in the air. And don’t forget there’s going to be about ten thousand cops in the area, somewhat complicating things.”

“I understand,” said MacGyver. “I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m out of answers.”

“MacGyver, your show’s going to be canceled if you can’t do better than that.”

“Hey, asshole sergeant, if I’m canceled you’re canceled, so you better pray for me. Oh, and I make the smart comments, I get to do the sarcasm, get it? Don’t go all Mick Bogier on me. Cowboys are cheap in this world.”

Bogier enjoyed lighting up the asshole like that. He knew it was expected that he would now apologize and show contrition, but he would not do it. Fuck him and the horse he came in on.

“Okay, here’s what you do,” said MacGyver. “Monitor the Four Seasons and the Afghan embassy. You guys have seen Cruz in action, you know his walk, his moves, you know what he’d have to wear to conceal a weapon. You may pick him up on a scouting mission, a recon, just from the way he moves. Ask around, see if anybody’s suddenly started showing up at those places. Meanwhile, I’ll find out what Swagger is doing in Vegas and when he’s due back. He’s still our best bet. After all, he’s found Cruz twice and nobody else is even in the game.”