Стивен Хантер - Game of Snipers

“That your understanding, Heflin?”

“That’s what they told me. I brought a gun in case there’s a gunfight.”

“Don’t hurt yourself with it.”

“I’m actually pretty good with it,” said Heflin.

“Well, leave it in the holster. If you’re shot at, that’s when you draw it.”

“Got you.”

“Here they come!” said the driver.

And come they did. Black Hawks, Wyoming Air National Guard, six of them — low, loud, and fast — in well-crafted delta-assault formation, altitude about one hundred and fifty, low enough to rip a column of dust from the earth below so that, in the settling gloom, it looked like they led the apocalypse toward the target.

Helicopters! Bob thought. I hope I am done with helicopters after this.

The birds disappeared over the crest, Nick announced, “Green, green, remember your positions and your assignments, safeties off only after disembarking, green, green, green!”

The accordion of vehicles again opened itself up, only this time at speed, as Nick’s Command truck led the way, screeched out, yanked hard right to the ranch entrance and went cascading down the road toward Hell or Glory. Three more armored trucks, riveted turtles in black with FBI in white painted on every flat surface, followed, in turn, by the SUVs and the other two sedans.

“Okay,” said the young FBI driver. “I guess it’s time.”

“You up for this, son?” asked Bob.

“Yes, sir,” said the driver.

He accelerated gently, not being part of any speed brigade, followed the column of dust ahead of him, entered the ranch, and proceeded through a mile of rolling plains before reaching the actual security gate. It was deserted. He pulled over.

Bob was first out. He waited for the sound of the guns. There was none.

“Okay,” said the agent, “I’m taking Mr. Heflin into Command now.”

“No guns,” said Bob. “Announce yourself to the assaulters so you don’t get shot up.”

“Yes, sir,” he snapped, and the two men set off at a half run, leaving Bob leaning on the fender under the dark sky, a bit beneath the last crest, feeling a whip of wind but no sense of human activity.

He heard the raid happening via radio.

“Hammer One, have entered house, no resistance.”

“Hammer Two, entering from rear, some civilians in the kitchen, have cleared them, no weapons, they’re just a mess.”

“Barn clear, this is Hammer Four, barn clear, no hostiles, no fire, deserted.”

“Hammer Five, in garage, all quiet, nice cars, nobody here.”

“This is Hammer Six, I am in the kitchen, moving through the basement, coming up the stairs. Hold your fire, Hammer One. No tangos, no incoming fire, it’s just your buddies from Minneapolis.”

“Got it, Six. Yeah, see you. Hey, everybody, just waiting on upstairs report. Okay, getting signal, no tangos upstairs, upstairs clear.”

“No incoming, no movement?” asked Nick, holding at his Command vehicle.

“Nothing, big dog. Oh, well, yeah: lots of bodies,” said Hammer 1. “What is this, Jonestown?”

The ranch

Earlier

No signal from Alberto the next day, nor the next. Juba was just waiting. He made his call to his own control, making certain the schedule was still set, his pickup would be on time, all things were in place, and there were no imminent signs of aggressive action against the operation. It was all subterfuge, of course, as he had no intention of leaving that way. That way, he knew, was death.

But he was also certain no attempt against his life would be made here. It would raise too many questions and lead to too many difficulties. He thought, instead, when he had been picked up — he himself did not even know by whom — that the vehicle would be followed, perhaps by a drone, and when it was far away, in some state disconnected by miles of highway from Wyoming, some police incident would be arranged so that the true perpetrators could claim utter innocence.

Juba passed the time working out in Menendez’s elaborate gym, went for a long run each day, and otherwise spent his time in his shop, reading reloading manuals and classic ballistics texts, if only to enjoy privacy in the world he so enjoyed. If he imagined a future — it happened occasionally — he saw himself on a large estate with a shop full of interesting rifles and, outside, a mile of free countryside into which he could shoot. It would not be shooting for purposes of politics, history, or faith. It would be shooting as shooting, an end in itself, a kind of subreligion of the larger commitment to Allah, demanding the same rigor, stamina, commitment, and vision. It would be a paradise on earth well-earned.

On the third day, a nod from Alberto told him that the tunnel entrance had been located and that things were set, to the degree that they could be. A nod in return was all that Alberto needed.

“I will see you in the big room at six-thirty,” Juba said to Alberto. “Tonight, I will say my farewell to our extraordinary host.”

“I will be there to perform my duties,” said the old man.

At 6:30, Juba, freshly showered and dressed casually in slacks and sweater, ambled to the vast room to find Menendez by himself, reading a book in front of the fireplace. The room was a museum of images and objects from cowboy movies. Sculptures of wild animals, their muscles ripped in strain as they galloped or reared or fought. Massive paintings of the knights of the plains at full gallop across the sagebrush, dust a-rising, neckerchiefs a-fly. Buffalo and elk heads, all with massive spans of knurled, polished horn. Tapestries in tribal patterns, gaudy colors in zigzags like lightning bolts. Polished wooden tables of thick oak, wrought-iron lamps, two sofas and four massive chairs, all in burnished leather and swaddled in tribal blankets. It was a cowboy fantasyland.

“How nice of you to visit,” said Menendez, rising. “I understand why you must remain solitary — it’s for your concentration. You must shoot even more precisely than you did at Wichita, though that was breathtaking. But I appreciate, now that our relationship is ending, the pleasure this last time of your company. I know you do not drink, but perhaps just his once. It’s a very fine Spanish wine, Sierra Cantabria Teso La Manja Toro.”

He spoke so fast, Alberto had trouble keeping up.

Juba shook his head.

“No? That is fine. A man as hard as you can make no concessions to appetite, I understand. Your true test is upcoming. I feel mine has passed, with the elimination of the witness. It is time for me to relax for a bit. Soon, I will leave here — one cannot stay in any one place too long, alas — and go to houses perhaps in the Caribbean or the South of France or in Cancún. I have always said my true headquarters is, literally, my head — ha — and I can administer my responsibilities from anywhere, which is the one pleasure of the modern age and all its communications genius, though I do think, my friend, that you and I might have been better suited to an earlier age, you as a general, in silk caftan and turban, mighty scimitar in its sash, ready to go against the Crusaders at Acre or Tours or wherever, myself a king of Old Spain, as our humble peninsula achieved domination over the world, due to the guts of her conquistadors and her admirals.”

He seemed flushed tonight, a bit florid, pausing now to sip while Alberto caught up. Maybe he was tipsy. Maybe he was blotto. The fire crackled, sending flickers of light and shadow into the room, which, in any event, was lit from behind ochre shades so that the illumination everywhere was gold. He smiled. He drew his arm around Juba, pulling the sniper closer.