Right to Kill

  Half an hour into their drive, Cantrell called and said she still hadn’t identified anything. The “cabin” clue hadn’t helped. The term wild goose chase entered Nathan’s thoughts, but they didn’t have anything else going. Either they’d find the twins up there or they wouldn’t; there was no sense worrying about it.

  Harv agreed they should text Bustamonte well past the Cajon Junction. They needed to arrive at the parking lot first if they had any chance of pulling this off. If the twins had eyes on the highway, it could be a problem. They’d see a taxi drive past well before it was supposed to be there.

  From what Harv told him, the ski resort was only about a ten- to fifteen-minute drive once they turned onto ACH from the 138. Harv thought he should send the text from Wrightwood, but that also held some risk. If the twins had the same idea of arriving first, they’d see the taxi sitting in the parking lot before it should be there.

  They weighed the pros and cons and decided to chance it. It made more sense to send the twenty-minute ETA text from Wrightwood, which allowed them to arrive well ahead of the twins.

  They stopped at the intersection of ACH and 138, changed into their 5.11 Tactical clothes, and then donned their ski outfits. Nathan’s was a little snug, but manageable. They took a moment to view the ski resort on Google Earth. The resort was actually two separate ski areas along ACH. West Base and East Base. They were headed to the West Base’s parking lot. The looping access road up to the parking lot, ski area, and lodge had the shape of an upside-down coffee cup, connecting to the highway in two places. For clarity, they named the two access roads. East loop and west loop. Approaching from Wrightwood, they’d use the east loop.

  After switching vehicles, they resumed their drive.

  As far as Nathan could see, the skies were clear. He rolled the window down a bit and freezing air rushed in. He welcomed its bite.

  He couldn’t pinpoint it, but something bothered him about Bustamonte’s latest messages. He knew he shouldn’t do it while driving, but he’d break his steadfast rule in this instance. He looked back at the recent texts, comparing them to the messages Tomas had sent before the car-dealership raid.

  Tomas’s tone was different, now: calmer, less harsh and vulgar.

  He knew people released stress in different ways; maybe Tomas used foul language to alleviate his. The attacks against Cornejo’s assets must’ve taken a toll on the man, especially given his brother had been at one of the locations. Now that Tomas believed Ashton was safe, he’d softened his tone.

  Still, the texts almost seemed like they’d been sent by another person. He supposed Ursula could’ve sent them. But that didn’t quite satisfy him either. Something didn’t seem right . . . something he couldn’t identify. It was like the feeling of being watched. And it wouldn’t go away. He knew the only people watching him were Harv and LG, a quarter of a mile back. They’d decided to put some space between their vehicles, just in case.

  He radioed Harv. “Pull over. We need to talk before we reach Wrightwood. I’ve got that nagging feeling.”

  CHAPTER 26

  After situating the taxi in the middle of the ski resort western base’s lot, Nathan parked the Lincoln in the southeastern corner, next to a couple of pickups. He’d checked their hoods and neither felt warm. Ultimately, Harv, LG, and he had decided that the taxi should be idling with its headlights on. Watching from the backseat, he wondered how long their wait would be. He’d sent the text to Tomas ten minutes ago and received a “be there shortly” reply. If Tomas had planned to arrive early, he ought to be here by now.

  At least tire tracks weren’t a major concern. The looping road leading in here and the flat area of the parking area had been plowed and it looked like a vehicle or two had already driven up. He saw the floodlights of several snow cats up on the slopes. The fresh tire tracks had likely been left by their operators.

  At the fifteen-minute mark, Nathan began to feel some doubt. They’d timed the drive from Cajon Junction and it took just over twenty minutes. They’d exceeded the speed limit, but not by much. He considered his options and didn’t have any. If the twins didn’t show, they were out of business—barring a miracle from Cantrell’s search—and the looming threat against LG, Harv, and him would continue.

  On the eastern horizon, the faintest hint of dark blue had materialized. At least the lights of the parking lot remained dark. If Tomas arrived with his headlights off, he wouldn’t be able to see the interior of the cab; its windows were totally black.

  There hadn’t been much conversation between the three of them. Everyone knew their roles. Now came the waiting game.

  Nathan looked toward the highway with his night vision for the hundredth time; this time he caught a glimpse of headlight bleed in the treetops.

  “We’ve got an approaching vehicle. Everybody stand by. It may not be our target, but be ready.”

  The highway couldn’t be seen from the parking lot, but the ultrasensitive device registered the headlight intrusion well before the naked eye could see it. Because the available light reflecting off the snowy ski slopes gave his night-vision scope more than enough light to see everything, Nathan had to remind himself that it was completely dark in this parking lot.

  The right-hand windows of his sedan were down, but he couldn’t yet hear the approaching vehicle.

  Then something telling happened.

  The headlight intrusion winked out.

  Even if the car had turned off the highway, his NV would still see its illumination. Whoever approached had killed their headlights.

  “I think we’re on,” he said. “The vehicle just went dark.”

  He heard it then, the soft crunch of tires on snow. The vehicle was definitely slowing.

  He ducked low as it approached from the east loop leading up here.

  A silver or tan SUV of some kind arrived. A big one.

  Damn it. What if they noticed his open windows? He should’ve rolled them up.

  The SUV eased past his position and he found himself holding his breath. He’d been on the wrong end of Kalashnikovs once this morning and wasn’t looking forward to an encore performance.

  Nathan squinted in concentration. He’d already lined up on the SUV with his .40 caliber Sig. Full-power ammo, this time. Nothing subsonic about it. If the driver turned on the headlights, he’d open fire.

  The SUV slowed, then stopped about fifty feet short of the taxi.

  Like a predator, it seemed to be stalking its prey.

  Two armed men got out of the SUV.

  Shit!

  They leveled their AKs at the taxi and opened fire.

  Stars of bright light erupted from their flash suppressors.

  The roar crackled off the surrounding mountains.

  “How did you know?” Harv asked.

  “I can’t explain it, I just did.”

  Harv and LG weren’t in the taxi; they were sitting in front of him in his car.

  As Nathan had predicted, the gunmen didn’t bother to reload. They simply approached the shot-up vehicle, expecting to find shredded bodies inside.

  “Now, Harv. Punch it.”

  Harv started the engine and raced straight toward the two gunmen.

  Before Harv slid to a stop, Nathan was out the door.

  “Hands in the air,” he yelled.

  The taller gunman didn’t comply. He ejected the empty magazine and pulled another one from his coat pocket.

  The other guy dropped his AK and ran for the trees.

  Nathan heard three booms from his left as LG drilled the defiant gunman before he could insert the magazine.

  “We need them alive!” Nathan had been half a second from shooting the man in the hip. “Harv, you’re on the rabbit. LG, they might be wearing vests. Cover me.”

  Nathan sprinted to the downed man and rolled him over. A massive dark stain had already formed underneath his coat. No vest. This man was a goner. Fortunately, it wasn’t Tomas.

  Nathan heard Harv yell at the rabbit
to stop at the same time a menacing sound made him cringe.

  A sound he knew well.

  The bullwhip crack of a supersonic bullet.

  Twenty feet behind him, ice and snow exploded off the parking lot’s surface.

  “Sniper! Get cover behind the SUV!”

  From the impact, he knew the shot must’ve originated from the ski area. He favored the quad chairlift as a location and popped three shots in that direction.

  A second crack tore through the air. “LG!”

  “I’m okay, but my underwear isn’t!”

  “I’m right behind you. Get behind that SUV.”

  The report of the rifle and crack of the passing bullet were nearly simultaneous, less than a half second. That meant the shooter was inside 250 yards.

  The predawn twilight, coupled with his white clothing, were likely the only reasons he and LG remained alive.

  The third shot hammered his ears and he could’ve sworn he felt the bullet’s wake turbulence pass by his ear.

  He huddled with her, his face inches from hers. “Stay down. I’m going to make an all-out sprint to get my rifle. I need you to look for the muzzle flash when he fires again.”

  “McBride . . .”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on getting shot. I’ll need you to lay down suppression fire while I make the dash.”

  “We should go together. Fifty-fifty odds.”

  “I’m not in a gambling mood. Besides, I’m in command. Now stay here and watch for the flash. I think the shooter’s somewhere near the quad chairlift.”

  Harv said, “My rabbit’s heading toward ACH. I’m on him.”

  He estimated the distance to the chairlift to be around five hundred feet—plus or minus—not an easy shot for the sniper, given the low light conditions. Unless the shooter had a powered optical, it would be difficult to acquire targets in these conditions.

  Nathan tried to recall the ballistic curve on an S&W .40 caliber. “Harv, what’s the muzzle velocity of our .40s?”

  “Around fifteen hundred feet per second, but it bleeds off quickly. They should go subsonic at around a hundred yards.”

  “I think we’re about five hundred feet from the shooter. Half a second of flight time?”

  “Yeah, about. Count on about four feet of bullet drop.”

  “LG, you’re shooting uphill slightly, so add another foot. Hold five feet high and shoot at the base of the chairlift where the skiers load.”

  Harv cut into the conversation. “Nate, I don’t like this idea much.”

  “I need my Remington to take that sniper out. We’re both pinned and we’re short on options.”

  Nathan didn’t think Harv would say more about it, and he didn’t.

  “LG, maintain a constant rate of fire, shoot once every second or so. Drop back down if the sniper returns fire. The Sig’s laser will work well with your NV. You should be able to see the beam in the atmosphere. Give it a try. Can you see its beam suspended in the air?”

  “Yes.”

  This could be it, he thought, knowing some high-power rifle rounds cleaved through armored vests. Even if the bullet didn’t have much energy left, it could still puncture his lung, perforate his stomach or intestines, or worse.

  “Okay, do your best. Here goes . . . Now!”

  Her Sig pounded the darkness. Again. And again.

  On her third shot, he made his move, weaving back and forth as he ran to make himself a tougher target.

  Twenty feet from his car, another supersonic crack hammered his ears.

  He slid the last ten feet and positioned himself behind the right front tire.

  The trunk of his car—where his Remington 700 lay—was exposed to the shooter. He couldn’t access it without making himself a target again. He didn’t beat himself up; a sniper could’ve been positioned anywhere and he couldn’t have predicted there’d even be one.

  Not all was lost. He’d seen the muzzle flash, but more importantly, he hadn’t been shot.

  But now he had to get his weapon. Even laser-sighted, his handgun was no match against a high-power rifle, and from the sound of the reports, a big one.

  He should’ve kept it inside the car, rather than the trunk. He’d debated it and chosen the trunk in the event they encountered a cop. In hindsight, he regretted the decision and hoped it wouldn’t prove too costly.

  “Cease fire, LG. Conserve ammo.”

  The booming ended.

  “Do you have the engine block between you and the shooter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Watch your exposed feet. Use a front tire for cover.”

  “I’m already doing that.”

  “I’m going to need more cover fire to access the trunk. Keep down until just before you shoot. I saw the muzzle flash. The shooter’s lying prone right where we talked about.”

  “I copy, but I can’t see anyone.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I just need you to be close, not exact. Your shots were landing a little short. Adjust your aim about a foot higher.”

  “Copy. I’m down to my last five rounds.”

  “Look for a landmark above and beyond your target. After you change magazines, wait for my signal and open fire on the same landmark, copy?”

  “Copy. I’m reloaded and good to go.”

  “Stand by, LG. Now!”

  When her handgun began booming again, he darted to the rear of his sedan, popped the trunk, and forced the lid open.

  He grabbed the rifle case and maneuvered around to the front of the vehicle again.

  A crack whipped by his position. The sniper’s fifth attempt.

  No doubt, the shooter had initially ducked for cover, then realized he had little chance of being hit.

  Nathan flipped the latches, pulled the Remington from its foam slot, and powered on the scope. He set it for a combination of night vision and thermal imaging.

  Since his optic was zeroed for three hundred yards, he’d hold low a few inches.

  He cycled the bolt and came up. The long axis of his Lincoln was aligned about thirty degrees off the axis of the shooter’s position. At least the open trunk didn’t block his view.

  “LG, hold your fire. I want our shooter to reappear.”

  She clicked her radio in response.

  An eerie silence fell over the area and he thought he knew why. The box magazine capacity for most hunting rifles was five rounds. The shooter was likely reloading, one bullet at a time. Using a five-round stripper clip, an experienced marksman could get it done inside of three seconds, but he doubted this sniper was so equipped. If so, he should’ve taken more fire by now.

  Calming his body and mind, he began taking a series of deep breaths. Being in a sniper’s crosshairs had kicked his adrenal glands into high gear. He wasn’t worried about a cold-barrel first shot. At this distance, it would be a negligible adjustment. Plus he kept his barrel clean and dry—no oil in the rifling.

  He overruled the desire to rush things and settled into a comfortable shooting position.

  Several handgun reports popped from the north.

  Not wanting to distract Harv, he didn’t ask about it. Besides, if Harv had taken a bullet, he’d say something.

  As if on cue, Harv said, “I’m okay. He just tried to use his cell phone. I convinced him otherwise.”

  “Keep after him.”

  Nathan now had to wonder whether the shooter was relocating. Patience, he told himself. Wait him out . . .

  Five seconds passed. Then ten.

  Where are you?

  He took his scope off the ski-lift mound and did a quick TI scan of the immediate area. No bright objects.

  Twenty seconds, now. The shooter had to be relocating. It was also possible that LG had scored a hit, but he gave that low odds.

  Time to be aggressive. He couldn’t allow a sniper to remain on the loose.

  “LG, I want you to support Harv. I’m on the sniper. If I have to kill him, Harv’s rabbit will be the only live body we’ve got left to t
ell us where the twins are holed up.”

  “Remember, Nate,” Harv said. “I like my world with you in it.”

  “I second that,” LG added.

  “I’ll be fine. Get going. If Harv takes his man alive, we’re going to need your skills if he doesn’t cooperate. Do whatever it takes to find out where they came from.”

  “Count on it,” she said.

  Nathan slung his rifle across his shoulder, grabbed a handful of stripper clips, and stuffed them into his coat pockets. They were heavy, so he wasn’t worried about them falling out. He ran through a quick mental checklist and made a beeline for the employee parking area. A huge medical cross was painted on a building to his left, probably the ski patrol’s office. He’d head for that. From there, he should have a clear view of the quad chairlift and the surrounding area.

  Handgun in hand, he changed his mind and diverted to a large covered sign displaying a detailed map of the resort and ski runs. Some kind of small building sat to the right of the map, probably a ticket office.

  He ran straight toward the map kiosk, keeping it between himself and the last known location of the shooter.

  The ski lodge showed no signs of activity at all. He began to believe the only employees on site were the two snow cat operators, and since they hadn’t stopped, they couldn’t have heard the gunfire down here. The building across the highway was a different matter.

  Before moving out of the cover of the map kiosk, he used his thermal imager to scan the area again. No bright objects appeared, except for the snow cats. The TI easily picked up their engines’ heat signatures.

  Nathan had a native ability to memorize maps quickly. He didn’t know how or why his brain worked that way, it just did. He burned the ski resort’s layout into his mind, not bothering to learn all the names of the different ski runs, but making a mental note of their routes and the chairlifts supporting them.

  He took a final look and saw a single bright signature appear from behind a tree to the left of the quad chairlift line. This was clearly the shooter; his rifle barrel glowed like a Star Wars lightsaber.