Dead Shot

Paris. Even if you were not the sniper who first brought him down, we have you on video putting a bullet in his head at point-blank range. We were right across the street at the time, and Saladin was under close surveillance.”

She shuffled that picture to the bottom of a small stack and held up another head-and-shoulders photograph. “Here’s your second victim, a bodyguard.” Then she showed him still another. “Your third was the driver. You massacred three men and then ran inside that house, and that was followed by gunshots and the big explosion.”

She held up a final photograph. “This was the only other person inside, another bodyguard, and I assume you killed him, too, because you came out and he didn’t.” Carolyn Walker stopped talking and stared at Kyle. He had blinked when shown the final photograph. “What is it? You recognize this man?”

Kyle said nothing. Oh, yeah. I know him all right. He had been using the entire time since the last procedure to pump in deep breaths to store up oxygen, because he knew more water was on the way. As a sniper, he had been trained to slow down his life in critical moments, to breathe regularly under stress, and, most of all, to never panic. The picture had thrown off his rhythmic breathing pattern.

“You’ll talk,” Walker said. “Sooner or later, everyone talks.” At her signal, the wet towel was thrown back over his face.

He heard water slosh as a bucket was hoisted and he gobbled air, ordering himself to relax rather than fight it this time. Temporary. Temporary. His brain ticked off the seconds as the buckets emptied, pouring over him and into the big tub below. The soaked towel was to simulate the feeling of being smothered but actually helped keep the water moving instead of flooding into his nostrils and lungs. He could hear and sense everything but after the first minute decided to turn off the sound for a while and just lived in his head.

The gnarly pipeline wipeout in Hawaii was one favorite memory. One moment, standing in control on the board with the bright sun overhead and the big wave roaring its protest at being ridden, then the curl catching and dumping him. Down he went into the swirling, powerful wash, and a strong underwater current pushed him beneath a rock. Thought he would never be able to climb out of that hole where the green water was trying to kill him. Two minutes. Chest getting tight, and he let some of the old air bubble in his lungs escape to ease the pressure. Two and a half.

When the towel was removed, he switched on his own lights again. Nothing had changed except his freedom to breathe. Kyle looked up at the agents and brayed a loud and challenging laugh as streams of water streamed down his face. One of his defense mechanisms when he was in a tight spot was to turn it into a game, something that was not so serious. “Come on, you pussies! Can’t you do better than that? Feeling sorry for the prisoner? Damned amateurs.”

Hunt and Walker stormed from the room. “Did you notice that he didn’t even move this time? That first session, he shook like a leaf.” Hunt said.

Walker peeled off her windbreaker and hung it over the back of her chair. “He was playing with us,” she said. “I’m bringing the doctor and the crash cart down here to stand by for resuscitation. This time, I’ll drown the son of a bitch, if I have to.”

“I just had a thought, Carolyn. We’ve had him for almost a full day and he has not once asked for a lawyer. Any normal American would be screaming for an attorney by now.”

“Any normal person would have broken by now. He is too well trained to resist pressure and pain. I’m worried that he would rather die than talk.”

“So I will take away that option. If the water fails this time, we resuscitate, then use chemicals to knock him out and push through those defenses.”

“Might be fatal.”

“Might be.”

“Wish that authorization would come through.”

Thirty more minutes passed before they went back into the room, this time with some white coats tagging along with them.

Medical staff, Kyle realized. He no longer gave any pretense of being subtle and started to loudly huff and puff to fill his lungs. One medic filled a syringe with propofol, a white liquid that would erase the last few minutes of Kyle’s memory. As soon as he blacked out, the “milk of amnesia” would be administered, and he would not be able to recall what had happened to him during the drowning moments.

A dry and thinner towel was spread over his face this time. He closed his eyes and relaxed as the water began to pour, this time an almost unbroken stream, bucket after bucket. He raged silently in his mind: Bring it, you shitbirds! Bring it on!

A minute. Two minutes. Three. He was paddling off the Baja coast near kilo marker 57, going out several miles and just lingering in the hot sunshine. He was diving without scuba gear along the Australian watery wonderland of the Great Barrier Reef. He was in full rig, practicing planting explosives on the hull of a ship at night. He needed air now, just as he had needed air then. Running low on fuel here, gang. Bubbles. Gagging building in his throat. Water winning, seeping into his lungs. Four minutes. Hold on. Then an acceptance of death as the body’s defenses caved in, the physical machine demanding air. Temporary. Five minutes and counting. Nothing left. He gasped and opened his mouth to suck in oxygen and the water poured in. He was drowning.

As he began to black out, he heard sounds, shouting in the room, and the towel was jerked away. Air! The chair popped to an upright position, and one of the white coats was there to help him regurgitate the water he had swallowed. His senses returned, blinking on one at a time like a series of switches, as he shivered violently against the straps, vomited water, and sucked in life-giving oxygen.

More people were in the room, heavy boots, yelling, moving like shadows. His eyes focused on a slim figure, a woman with short hair, dressed in black jeans and a black sweater: Sybelle!

She had an envelope in one hand, a pistol in the other, and a wicked gleam in her eyes. The questioners, along with the two agents that he assumed had been the bucket brigade and one of the white coats, were lined up along the far wall with their hands up, covered by four Marines in full combat gear. Sybelle had brought along overwhelming power for backup.

“Hey there, Dead Guy,” she said. “I have your Get Out of Jail Free card here, and I’m supposed to give it to some chick named Carolyn Walker. What say we just pop these motherfuckers, get you dressed, and go find her?”

“I’m Agent Walker,” Carolyn said, raising her voice to try to regain control. “What’s going on? Military troops cannot be used in America.”

Sybelle sailed the envelope toward her and told her to pick it up but stay by the wall. She kept her pistol trained on them. “You medics un-buckle this man and get him warm, right now. Blankets, towels, your own fucking clothes, whatever. Move!” Her voice was steely with anger, and the menace was not lost on the medical team.

Walker’s look of surprise was total. “Dave, it’s a direct order from the president and countersigned by the attorney general to give her the full and unconditional interagency support of the U.S. government.”

“Jesus,” said Hunt, reading the letter. He handed it back to Walker. “Okay, so you are some kind of undercover agent. We still should have been told you were coming onto our turf. And if you have this kind of pull, why didn’t you just say so?”

Kyle had a jacket over his naked lap, and a medic was vigorously massaging his shoulders with a towel to get blood circulating again. As his voice returned, he issued orders. “Give us all documentation-written, video, and audio-of your surveillance operation in Paris and my interrogation. You keep nothing, no copies or backups.” He nodded toward Sybelle. “We’re special forces operators, so I still can’t give you my name or reveal any details. It would be best for everyone if you just go back to your other business and pretend you never saw me.”

Sybelle holstered her pistol and had the Marines stand down and leave. The agents relaxed, but when Dave Hunt started to talk, she snapped, “No questions. Just gather up that material so we can all get out of here.”

Kyle stood unsteadily as Walker and Hunt left the room. He whispered to Sybelle, “I know who Juba is.”

DENVER

The taxi spun along mile after mile on the long route between Denver International Airport and the city. The