Ghost Sniper: A Sniper Elite Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

start. If Pope ever targeted anyone Gil didn’t agree needed to be removed, he would simply take a pass.
    As he eyed Blickensderfer through the scope at a hundred yards, he watched the man laughing and handing a flask to one of his security men whom Gil knew—from seeing around the lodge over the past few nights—to be carrying a Beretta pistol beneath his jacket.
    At last, after three long days of stalking his prey on the snowy mountain, the moment came right. The air was still, and the snow fell straight down all across the slope. Gil placed the reticule on Blickensderfer’s sternum over his heart and began to squeeze the trigger.
    Inexplicably, Blickensderfer’s fianceé lunged forward into the sight picture just as the trigger was passing the point of no return. Gil twitched as the rifle went off, and the .308 Lapua magnum blasted almost silently from the end of the suppresser at more than 2,500 feet per second. His heart stopped as he watched, waiting for the woman’s head to explode. It did not. He saw her blond hair kick up at the nape of her neck as the round passed through it, soundlessly impacting the white powder thirty feet beyond.
    The woman brushed absentmindedly at the back of her neck and pulled her ski poles from the snow with a laugh. Apparently she had lost her balance and nearly toppled off her skis.
    Gil rolled behind the trunk of a pine and pulled the white watch cap from his close-cropped head, breathing a deep sigh of relief. He had very nearly murdered an innocent woman.
    He lay there with large snowflakes landing silently on his face in the quiet surroundings. He stroked his stubbled chin and tried to recall his estranged wife’s face. Montana seemed very far away as he dug the cigarettes from his parka and lit one with a Zippo lighter. He knew that Pope could not have been watching via satellite due to the cloud cover, but that was a moot point. Gil was on his own for these off-the-books missions, which meant no overwatch.
    Still, he told himself, you never knew what Pope was up to.
    As the Blickensderfer party skied off down the mountain, Gilfinished the cigarette, knowing he’d see them around the lodge again that night. “Fare thee well,” he muttered, thinking of the pretty woman who had no idea that a hot .308 had passed within two inches of her spine at the base of her skull. “And enjoy yourself tonight, Sabastian. I won’t make the same mistake tomorrow.”
    Tucking the cigarette butt into his pocket, he disassembled the rifle and packed it away before taking off his reversible parka and turning the red side out. Then he stripped the white pack cover from his red rucksack and skied off down the slope dressed as a begoggled member of the Malbun Ski Patrol.

4
    CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
    13:00 HOURS
    Cletus Webb, deputy director of the CIA, stepped out of the restroom in the CIA building in Langley to find Mark Gurich, director of foreign operations, standing against the wall waiting for him. Webb glanced at the red file folder in the man’s hand. “I take it that’s for me?” he said, put off to be ambushed outside the john.
    “I couldn’t find you,” Gurich said. “The proverbial shit just hit the fan down in Mexico. Alice Downly and Bill Louis were assassinated in what looks like a major cartel attack. Damn near her entire DSS team was wiped out. Our embassy’s on full lockdown—marines, machine guns, all the frills—and Mike Ortega, Mexico chief of station, is asking me for an Operational Immediate I don’t think I’ve got the authority to give him.”
    A crease formed in Webb’s brow. “You’re telling me Downly’s dead?”
    “That’s been confirmed by Mexico station.”
    “What the hell happened?” Webb was tall, with a basketball player’s build, thinning blond hair, and contemplative blue eyes.
    “Mexico station says it looks like she was killed by a sniper, but that hasn’t been confirmed.”
    “You’re the director of foreign