Dead Shot

of the line. The dogs, however, were useless when the small convoy of yellow trucks arrived, because their sensitive noses would twist in agony if they inhaled the scents of peppers and raw chiles. They whimpered, their eyes watered as if they were weeping, and they batted their paws against their muzzles, sneezing. As a courtesy, the lead driver would use his cell phone when the trucks were about a half mile from the border so the handlers could take the dogs for a nice walk away and protect them from the intolerable aromas. Day after day.

Today, one of the vehicles, number 14, had been especially engineered to contain several ranks of high- pressure storage cylinders that stood against the cab wall in the cargo area behind the boxes and containers of spices. Some of the tanks were plugged into small pipes that fed up to and out of the roof of the truck, and at the turn of a dashboard switch by the driver, the contents would flow out of two exhaust fans. Others were sealed for later use. All were filled with the toxic gas that had been perfected in the Iranian lab. From Paris, Juba had transmitted the final formula to a laboratory attached to the Diablo Gourmet factory, and a small production run was assembled.

At noon, all three yellow panel trucks with the dancing devil logos rolled through the checkpoint unmolested. Number 14 was the last truck in the line and was driven by Xavier Sandoval. Three miles from the border, when he passed the Mariposa exit on I-19, Sandoval placed a call to San Francisco and confirmed that he was on his way.

21

BALTIMORE

SYBELLE SUMMERS CALLED GENERAL Middleton on a secure phone from the safe house and did a quick report to assure him the situation was under control and they would both be back at work tomorrow. Kyle needed rest tonight. Middleton accused him of just being lazy but authorized them to take the rest of the day off. It was already dark outside when one of the government types took them back to civilization, into the swarming normality of Baltimore and the comfort of a large hotel on the waterfront.

After taking showers, they met in the bar. A storm had moved in from the east, and a steady rain whipped by the wind provided entertainment beyond the big window, where pedestrians and traffic did erratic battle at intersections and, beyond that, small boats rode the incoming swells.

“What next?” Sybelle asked, tasting a tame scotch and water.

“Try to find Juba again,” Kyle responded. He had already drained a cold pale ale microbrew and was on his second. The water treatment had left him dehydrated.

“That’s not what I meant.” She looked hard into his eyes. “This whole thing has gotten its teeth into me, Kyle. Action, worry, violent ups and downs, and not knowing whether any of us will be alive tomorrow.”

“We’ll be alive. At least for tomorrow. Can’t guarantee after that.”

“How do you know?”

“If Juba had wanted to set off a demonstration gas attack in Paris, he would have done so by now. Why wait? He’s hauling it somewhere else. Probably coming this way.”

“See, that’s just what I mean. Tomorrow is going to be just as bad as today until we stop this bastard. Thousands of people are at risk of dying, and you and I are racing to put ourselves right in the middle of the next ground zero in order to stop him.” She reached across the table and grabbed both of his hands in hers. “Right now I need to stop being a Force Recon Marine and just be a woman for a couple of hours. I want a man’s arms around me and some sweet nothings whispered in my ear.”

“I see your point, Sybelle, but I ain’t that guy.”

“Oh, I know that. I outrank you anyway, and sleeping with you would almost be like incest. But I don’t want you to be concerned if I’m gone for the next few hours. I am going to hit a club or two and look at the lights and dance and have a couple of drinks. Then some smooth-talking and beautiful man is going to pick me up and take me back to his apartment. I suggest you do the same.”

“Pick up some dude?”

“Don’t be weird. Call Rent-a-Blonde, or maybe buy a drink for that little brunette at the bar. Just don’t be alone tonight.” She squeezed his arm tightly, rose from the booth, and walked out, toward the music that she hoped was waiting for her somewhere uptown. She stood in the doorway to struggle into a raincoat and belt it tight. Kyle wondered what the pickup guy was going to think about the ankle holster and the Gerber knife.

The brunette watched Sybelle leave, then looked over at him. She wore a silk blouse with a subtle Chinese print and a matching brown skirt and shoes, with gold accessories. The triangular face was Midwest pretty, and her hair was shoulder length and layered. The brown eyes were questioning.

He ordered another beer and settled back, letting his mind roam. We know who Juba is now, so the problem becomes finding him. What is he looking for? How can we put a net over him so I can kill him? He closed his eyes and ran the mental loop again, everything he could recall about Juba and the earlier Trident discussions about how to nail the enemy sniper back when he was just the scourge of Iraq.

“Do you mind if I join you?” The soft question made him open his eyes.

“Sure. No. I mean not at all,” said Kyle, snapping awake. “Please. Sit down. Nobody should be alone on a night like this.”

Sybelle dropped her wet coat, slid in beside him, and ordered a drink.

GUILFORD, CONNECTICUT

Christopher Lowry firmly believed that he could find anybody; it was impossible for any American to completely disappear. When the ten-thousand-dollar retainer came in with the request for a location trace, the private detective poured another cup of coffee, put aside the Courier, and got to work. He and his wife, their five children, and two dogs lived in an old house on one of the many crooked, twisting roads around Sachem Head Harbor, and he always had bills to pay.

United States Marine Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson. Trying the obvious first, he typed the name into several search engines, looked over the mass of hits, and decided that couldn’t be right. He refined the search and got the same result. Then he switched to a restricted military database and again received the same information, along with a personnel jacket that ended with the man’s burial at Arlington National Cemetery. The archives of several major newspapers, including the Post and the Times, contained stories covering the event and awarding the Marine the Medal of Honor. A friend in the state police entered the name into the NCIC database.

This Swanson guy was dead and planted. Lowry drank some more coffee and took the dogs for a walk. They tore around through the thick trees chasing squirrels and went splashing into the shallow water where fields of cattails grew tall, and Lowry let his thoughts go free as he limped along behind them. He had been on the New York Police Department for fifteen years and carried the shield of a detective before a bullet from a crack addict took away much of his left knee and forced him into retirement. Chris Lowry doubted if his client was going to be satisfied with a newspaper report that the man they were thinking about hiring had been dead for some time, buried in Arlington.

Okay, he thought, so we start at the beginning. The stories said the man was from South Boston. By noon, he was easing his blue Toyota sedan onto the Connecticut Turnpike, heading for Southie.

BALTIMORE

“Swanson! Where is that asshole and his poison gas?” The voice on the telephone brimmed with authority. Kyle blinked himself awake, shook Sybelle’s bare shoulder, and silently mouthed the word “Middleton.” She threw the bedcovers aside and sprinted, naked, to the open door between their rooms, as if the general could see between Washington and New York. She took nothing for granted, particularly where the Lizard might be involved. He had