The ranch
You see, my friend,” said Menendez, “this isn’t a request, it is what must be. You are the tool of my deliverance, and my god, or yours, has put you in my hands at exactly the right moment, while at the same time it in no way jeopardizes the bigger operation for which you were sent. It is a sideshow, a little extra fuss, perhaps best regarded as a training exercise. I want your friendship, I value your skill, I admire your courage, but I must have your cooperation.”
Juba considered, while Jorge caught up with the translation. Really, what choice did he have? With these monsters, one never knew what could happen. They had no morality, no commitment, no belief in anything as perfect as the caliphate, no belief in God.
“And if I don’t?”
“It would be so regrettable.”
“You realize that if you go back on your deal, the people who believe in me will declare war upon you.”
“What a waste that would be. Many would die, and for what? We should be brothers. We have common enemies, and slaying them is so much more important than petty squabbles.”
Juba sighed. He had no choice, not here, not now, not so close. But it was a breach of etiquette he would not forget.
“With that superrifle of yours,” said Menendez, “it seems to be no problem at all. You can kill a gnat at a mile. Here, you would kill a gnat at a quarter mile.”
“I cannot use that rifle. I must use a different rifle, and I must have maximum security, minimum time in the vulnerable shooting site, and a clear and efficient escape.”
“Is there something wrong with the rifle?”
“There is nothing wrong with the rifle. But I have spent months working with it—the scope and the ballistics software and the ammunition—to achieve a state of perfection. I cannot now take it on another operation, where I have to change all the settings, where it’s liable to be banged about, treated roughly, perhaps dropped. Then I’d have to readjust, retest, and sometimes you can never quite find what you once had. Second, if I use that rifle—a .338 Lapua Magnum—the Americans will understand exactly why I am here. They may or may not know already. I’m not sure what the Israelis learned from their raid and what they shared with the Americans. For all the Americans know, I’m merely suspected of the nebulous crime of terrorism, which could be anything from blowing up a shopping center to poisoning the water supply to filing a suit against a Hollywood movie.”
“I see. I can work with that. I am quite reasonable. Let us know what is required. It shall be done.”
“I prefer to plan my own operation. I will see things that your people could never understand. To use my gift, you must let it express itself. Without my own plan, my confidence will be considerably lessened. This is not an easy task. I will need to acquire, zero, and test a new rifle. I will need to study the site, consider time of day, distance, weather—all those factors. Like so many, you think this can easily be done.”
“Rifle?”
“The caliber will be called 6.5 Creedmoor. Made by Remington. Heavy barrel, perhaps the police model, easily acquired. The Model 700: they used them against us to great effect in Baghdad. They used them in Kuwait. They used them in Vietnam. It’s a wonderful rifle, and shooting it will be a pleasure. You must also acquire a Leupold scope, at least 10×. I need ten boxes of ammunition, Match-grade, preferably Hornady, as the caliber is their creation, so they would understand it best. Preferably, this weapon is bought used, the scope mounted and zeroed by the previous owner. If it must be purchased new, have the store mount the scope and zero it. That saves considerable time, and time is something we need. And I need a few days here to work with it. I need also plans of the site, location of the target, distances, mean weather conditions, time of day of shot.”
“My people are all Special Forces. They have experience. They will scout and assemble a preliminary plan. Yours will be the last say.”
“All right,” said Juba. “That seems all right.”
“It shall be done,” said Menendez.
“Oh,” Juba nodded toward one of the men, “and keep that one away from me. He makes me nervous.”
“You mean La Culebra?”
“No, he’s all right. I mean Jorge, the talker. He makes me jittery.”
As he changed from Arabic to Spanish, Jorge acquired an ashen look. He swallowed, smiled awkwardly, licked his lips.
“I understand,” said Menendez, and nodded to La Culebra.
La Culebra cut Jorge’s throat in one second, and Jorge died in seven.