Lost Girls

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Golden followed Gant out of the building. She knew he thought her theories were bullshit and her contributions so far of little value. It was a reaction she had run into many times before, both at the FBI and here at Bragg when she worked for SOCOM. She had little time to reflect on this latest issue because Gant pulled open the door to the car parked in front of a garish statue of a soldier. Gant brusquely gestured for Cranston get out. The three of them stood in the parking lot, their faces almost in shadow from the parking lot lights, with the statue looming over them as if in silent judgment. Golden decided Gant had jumped her one too many times about Sam, so she decided to remain silent and let him take the lead.

Gant snapped out the names. “Sergeant Joseph Lutz. Staff Sergeant Michael Payne. Sergeant First Class Lewis Forten.”

Despite the poor light, Golden could see Sam’s face go white. “They’re dead.”

Gant jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s what it says on the plaque over there and in their service records. Like you said, died in a helicopter crash. Except they didn’t, did they?”

“They’re dead,” Cranston repeated, as if by saying it again he could make it so.

“No, they’re not. They have your daughter.”

Subtle, Golden thought as Cranston stepped back as if punched. He leaned against the side of his car. She resisted the impulse to reach out and comfort him. Gant was right about one thing: Time was of the essence. Even as she thought that, she realized he was right about something else: Sam had been holding something back. She’d sat with too many patients when she was practicing early in her career who with-held information during therapy not to recognize it now. She realized her judgment had indeed been clouded by her sympathy for Sam when they first went to his house.

“Not only do they have your daughter,” Gant pressed on, “they’ve already killed three other girls. They slashed one girl’s throat while she was working at a daycare center, right in front of the kids. The pilot’s fiancée. Her name was Kathy Svoboda. And she was pregnant. So technically they’ve notched four kills.”

Golden was startled by that last piece of information. She had not read through the autopsy.

Gant continued. “They drowned another girl in a foot of water. Jim Roberts of the CIA — his daughter, Caleigh. Eighteen years old. And they chained Michael Caulkins’ daughter Tracy to a tree and let her starve to death. Cached her, just like they’ve cached your daughter. Coroner estimates she lasted almost three weeks there, slowly dehydrating and starving. Tracy got so desperate she tried smashing her own foot with a rock to try to get out of the shackle that held her to the tree. If we’re going to find Emily before she meets the same fate, you need to tell us what happened.”

Golden noticed that Gant had begun using the plural — we. He probably wasn’t even aware of it, but she noted the verbal cue anyway. She focused on Sam. His head was down, his shoulders slumped. Not anything like the commanding figure she’d met here two years ago. Children could do that to you, she knew.

Sam raised his head and looked from Gant to her, searching for some sympathy. Golden steeled her face to remain passive. The way she had learned through graduate school in training and in her early practice when she’d worked with patients.

“All right,” Sam finally said. “It wasn’t a chopper accident. They were on a mission into Colombia just over the border from Panama. It got all fucked up. It wasn’t my fault. I tried to help them. But they did get killed.”

Gant was silent and Golden continued to follow his lead, waiting.

“It was a direct action mission,” Sam finally continued. “They were a sniper team seconded out of Seventh Group. Forten was the team leader and sniper. Payne was his spotter and Lutz his security. They were infiltrated into Colombia from Panamanian airspace via HAHO — high altitude, high opening parachute,” he explained with a glance at Golden— “near a village that was a key way-point in moving cocaine over the border. The villagers had contacted both the Colombian government and the DEA that they were willing to accept the substantial aid package offered if they stopped allowing the free trafficking — but part of the deal was taking out the local warlord who ran the drug net. So Forten’s team went in to do that. We knew the warlord was going to strike back at the village once they no longer gave sanctuary to his couriers and we got intelligence when that was going to happen. So the team went in forty-eight hours before that. We figured if we cut off the head, the rest of the organization would fall apart.”

Sam fell silent for a moment and they all could hear the hum of the parking lot lights overhead.

He picked up his story. “They were on site and everything was good. I was on the exfil chopper. We were waiting just over the border. The team reported the warlord and his men coming in to the village as scheduled. I gave them the green light to take out the warlord. Then Forten also reported seeing an American among them. Someone they thought might be a DEA agent from a badge on the man’s belt.

“So per SOP I called it in to the Embassy. Found out that the DEA and the Agency had come up with something new. The DEA had gotten one of their agents to make the warlord think he was playing both sides. And they hoped to use this connection to go further up the food chain and take down a major player, someone much bigger than the warlord.”

“So fuck the villagers,” Gant said and Golden was surprised at the venom in his voice.

Sam wearily nodded. “Yeah. The deal was off. God-damn bureaucratic fuck up. The left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing. I radioed Forten to abort. Ordered him to abort.” Sam shook his head. “He ignored me. Ignored a direct order. He fired, took out some of the warlord’s men. Their position was compromised and over-run. The word we got back eventually via the CIA was that all three were killed.”

“And you didn’t even try to go in to extract them?”

Sam’s face hardened. “I had my orders. We were not to cross the border. They had their orders. If Forten hadn’t fired, they’d have been able to get out with no trouble. Hell, they could have walked over the damn border.”

“Borders.” Gant nodded. “They killed Caleigh Roberts right on the Alabama-Florida border. I don’t think that was coincidence. They were making a point.”

“They could have walked out if Forten hadn’t fired,” Cranston repeated.

Gant shook his head in obvious disgust. “Who else was involved? They’ve hit you, Caulkins — he was the DEA agent in the camp?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Roberts was the CIA liaison, right?”

Sam nodded.

“Lankin was your pilot?” Gant asked.

“I suppose so,” Sam said.

“Who made the decision to abort? Roberts?”

“I talked to Roberts,” Sam said, “but he was relaying a command from the man who was in charge of all counter-drug operations in theater.”

“And who was that?” Gant pressed.

“A State Department official named Foley. Lewis Foley.”

“Fuck,” Gant said. “Would have been nice to know that earlier.”

“I thought they were all dead,” Sam protested. “It didn’t even occur to me it could be them.”

“Because you took the CIA’s word?”

“Yes, but we lost radio contact with them. And if they’d been captured, it stands to reason the warlord would have used them as bargaining chips. Or executed them. What the hell did happen to them?”

“Good question,” Gant said. He had his Satphone out. “Anyone else who might be targeted?” he asked as he punched in a speed dial.

Sam held his hands up helplessly. “If it’s them, I don’t know. Foley gave the order to abort because I assume Caulkins was working the warlord. I relayed the order. I guess Lankin was flying the exfil chopper, which I was on. Why would they target him? He was just following orders.”

Gant held up his hand, silencing Sam. “Seems like everyone was just following orders but no one was taking responsibility.” Gant talked into the Satphone when it was answered. “I need to locate Lewis Foley. State Department. A-S-A-P. And the make-up of his immediate family.”

The three stood in silence as they waited on the answer. Golden was surprised to suddenly feel very tired, as the adrenaline rush of the past thirty-some-odd hours wore off. It bothered her to see Sam broken and defeated, but even more so to realize he had been part of this whole mess and that he had lied from the very beginning. And worse, she could sense he still wasn’t telling them the complete truth. And she was uncertain whether she should tell Gant that or if he already knew it as he had known it from the beginning, obviously.

Gant cocked his head listening. Then he spoke: “We need security on Foley and his immediate family ASAP. That is most likely the next target. Who do you have close by, Mister Nero?”

Gant looked surprised at the answer. “Neeley is there?” He listened for a few seconds longer then snapped the phone shut. “Let’s go,” he said to her.

“Wait—“ Sam said

“There’s no more time to stand around talking,” Gant said. He paused. “Unless there’s something else we should know?”

Sam shook his head. “I’ve told you everything. I thought they were dead. I was told they were dead.”

Gant turned to Golden. “We have to get to DC to see Foley. He’s the only one we know that was involved in this whose family hasn’t been hit yet, so there’s a good chance his is next.”

Nero turned to Hannah Masterson as he put the phone down. As he expected, she spoke before he had a chance to.

“You can’t commit Neeley to doing a damn thing.”

“Ms. Neeley committed herself a long time ago,” Nero said. “She just hasn’t accepted the reality of her current situation. What is she going to do? Take up knitting?”

Masterson sat still and just stared at Nero, knowing, of course, that any non-verbal effort was wasted on him. “She has a choice.”

“Really?” Nero asked. “You believe in free will?”

“Yes, I do,” Masterson said.

“Good,” Nero said. “So do I. But you only have a choice when you have options. What are Neeley’s options?” Nero asked. When no answer was forthcoming, he pressed on. “She is what her life made her. What Anthony Gant made her. And what her own choices made her.”

“And that is?”

“A tool for you to use.”

“Like I’m a tool for you to use?” Masterson countered.

“We’re all tools,” Nero said. “Those who know that they are hold the advantage. Ms. Neeley has been putting off the inevitable. Now it’s time to jar her back into reality.”

“That’s—“ Masterson began, but Nero cut her off.

“Perhaps I was a bit harsh saying she was a tool. She’s a person whose life has been shaped a certain way. Do you think she would be content sitting in the West Virginia hills keeping a home like Jesse Gant is? You spent time with her and saw her in action. And you also spent considerable tending a home and being the good wife and that didn’t suit you either. The worst possible existence is living a lie.”

A long silence followed that and, not for the first time or the last, Nero missed his eyes. He wondered what expressions were passing over Ms. Masterson’s face. When she finally did speak, the suddenness almost startled him.

“We talked about that, Neeley and I. About how we were made into tools that men used. Whether it was her being taught the trade of killing or me being taught how to prepare a dinner for my husband’s boss. But, obviously, what I was taught didn’t take. And I am now a much different person than who I was. So why doesn’t Neeley have the same option?”

“Neeley wasn’t taught to be who she is initially,” Nero said. “She was born that way and then had the good fortune to follow her instincts. Meeting Jean-Philippe and entering his world was not a random choice. She was drawn to it. Then Mister Gant finding her was not random. He sensed her and it was more than the bomb she was carrying. He sensed a kindred spirit. She wasn’t running from things like you were. You weren’t making choices, you were trying to avoid bad things. When I studied your profile so many years ago and saw what happened to you as a child and how you reacted to it, I sensed who you really were.”

“So, I’m making choices now?”

“Yes.” Nero paused. “And it is your choice whether or not to call Mister Bailey to go pose the choice to Ms. Neeley.”

Jesse Gant and Neeley sat on the wooden porch watching the first hint of dawn creep over the mountains to the east. In the week that Neeley had been visiting, they had both fallen in the habit of rising early and bringing a steaming cup of coffee out to the deck and sitting there, watching the valley below the house slowly reveal itself. They watched the line of light creep across the lush forest.

They resembled each other, something both had noted on first meeting but not talked about. Neeley was almost six feet tall, Jesse just a shade shorter. Neeley had short, dark hair, while Jesse’s was styled almost the same but red. Both were slender and in good shape. The major difference was in their faces. Neeley’s skin was smooth and unblemished while Jesse’s was liberally sprinkled with freckles.

Most mornings they had talked of Tony Gant, the man they had in common and had both loved. Jesse had left Tony and Neeley had been left in death by him. But the last two mornings the talk had shifted from the past and Tony, to the future and his son with Jesse: Bobbie. He was twenty-two but with the mental capacity of someone a decade younger. He was Jesse’s son and Tony Gant’s legacy to Neeley: on his deathbed he had asked her to take his son and she had promised that she would. It was a situation both women had danced around and finally gotten down to working out.

As promised, Neeley would continue to contribute financially to Bobbie’s future although she knew the money she had taken from the drug dealers Tony had set up for her would not last indefinitely.

“Tony used to watch from there,” Neeley said, as the pre-dawn light made it clear enough to see where she was pointing. “From that ridgeline. I came here with him one time. We spent two days up there. He was very proud of Bobbie.”

“That didn’t do Bobbie any good,” Jesse noted. “Watching but not interacting.”

“Gant was afraid if he contacted you or Bobbie it would bring trouble.”

“Yet trouble came anyway,” Jesse said. “Tony was a good guy but he lived too much in his own head. He figured if he thought something, it was real to other people. But they didn’t know what he thought so it wasn’t real.”

“He did the best he could,” Neeley said.

“I know.” Jesse took a sip of her coffee, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug. “That was the Gant boys — doing their best.”

“Did you know his brother Jack well?” Neeley asked.

This earned her a sharp look from Jesse. “Yes.”

“He works for the Cellar, right?”

“As far as I know,” Jesse said. “I haven’t heard from him in years.”

“I’ve wondered why Gant — Tony — didn’t want me to go to his brother for help,” Neeley said.

Jesse gave a wry smile. “He went down that road once before. He was big on not making the same mistake twice.”

“His rules,” Neeley noted.

“Yes, his damn rules.”

“What do you mean he went down that road before?” Neeley asked, broaching a subject both had avoided.

Surprisingly, Jesse smiled wistfully. “Well they were twins, you know.”

“You mean—“

Jesse shook her head. “It was nothing duplicitous. As I told you, I worked for the Cellar also for a little while. Mister Nero was desirous of having both the Gants working for him. Same face, two different places. I suppose Nero saw lots of possibilities in that. Nero is always looking for possibilities. Tony was in, but Jack was still in the Regular Army, serving in the Rangers. So Mister Nero sent me to recruit Jack.”

“You’re kidding?” Neeley looked shocked. “He used you like that?”

“It was who I was,” Jesse said simply. “It wasn’t a sexual thing. I had this aura and Nero knew its affect on men. I supposed that’s why he only sent me to recruit people, not kill them.”

“Shit,” Neeley suddenly said.

“What’s wrong—“ Jesse began, but then she heard it too, echoing dimly over the forested country-side. An inbound helicopter.

Both women watched as a black Bell Jet Ranger came swooping down the valley, flying very low, military low, just above the treetops. The chopper flared over the field across the county road from Jesse’s place and touched down. The side door opened and a non-descript man stepped out.

“Shit,” Neeley muttered.

“Nero’s dog,” Jesse said as they both watched Bailey walk across the road and up the driveway toward them. She looked over at Neeley. “And he’s come to fetch.”

Bailey stopped at the base of the stairs leading to the deck and looked up at Jesse. “May I come up?”

Jesse stood. “Have time for a cup of coffee?”

Both women could see the struggle on Bailey’s face as he considered the question. He appeared to be in a rush but his last visit here had been a difficult one. “Just one.” He came up the stairs as Jesse went inside. He looked at Neeley.

“You appear well.”

“No thanks to you.”

“I did my duty,” Bailey said in a tone that indicted the matter was not open for discussion.

Jesse came out with a mug and handed it to Bailey before taking her seat. All three could hear the sound of the helicopter’s engine still running. The fact that the pilot had not shut down indicated Bailey did not plan on discussing the weather.

“Are you here for me?” Neeley asked. “Or is this a social call?”

“I am here for you,” Bailey acknowledged. He glanced Jesse. “Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see you again, Jesse. How is Bobbie?”

“He’s doing well. No thanks to you or the Cellar.”

Bailey dropped his eyes. “I apologized for that. Things got out of hand.”

“You think?” Jesse said.

Bailey lifted the cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. “Mister Nero sends his regards,” he said to Jesse. He shifted his gaze to Neeley. “Mister Nero sends a summons. We require your assistance in a matter of some urgency.”

“We?”

“Mister Nero and Ms. Masterson.”

Jesse’s eyebrows lifted. “So she’s doing it?”

Bailey nodded. “It is who she is. She sits behind the desk now.”

“But Nero is close by,” Jesse said, earning a wry smile from Bailey.

“At the side of the desk.” The smile disappeared. “But I am afraid he does not have much longer.”

“What’s the matter of urgency?” Neeley asked.

“We can discuss that on the way,” Bailey said, setting down the mug.

Neeley remained still for several moments. She glanced at Jesse and the older woman gave a slight nod. “You’ll always have a place here if you want it.”

“Thank you,” Neeley said. She sighed and stood. Jesse also got up and went to Neeley. The two women embraced and then, without another word, Neeley went down the stairs toward the waiting helicopter, Bailey right behind her.

Neeley climbed into the chopper. Bailey sat down next to her, slamming the door shut and giving the pilot the thumbs-up. The bird lifted and sped away to the east, toward the rising sun. Neeley noted a long metal case lying on the floor at her feet and she knew what it contained. She reached up and put on a set of headphones and Bailey did the same.

“What’s the mission?” she asked, tapping the metal case with her foot.

“We assume you use the same weaponry that the late Mister Gant used,” Bailey said. “Accuracy International L96A1 firing NATO standard size 5.56mm by 51mm rounds. There is a freshly tooled muzzle suppressor and your rounds were loaded by our armorer and are subsonic.”

Neeley knew that meant the sniper rifle in the case was essentially noiseless beyond the sound of the bolt moving which wouldn’t be heard more than five feet from a firing position. “The mission?” she repeated.

“There is a man who we believe is being targeted by a rogue agent,” Bailey said. “Actually, we think it’s more likely the agent will be going after the man’s family, and since that consists only of his wife and the two are currently in the same house, it’s the same thing.”

Neeley thought Bailey was phrasing things rather oddly, but then again she’d never worked with the man. Bailey pulled a manila folder out of his metal briefcase and extended a black and white photo to Neeley. A distinguished looking man in his fifties and his wife, who appeared about a decade younger than him.

“He’s a State Department official,” Bailey continued as Neeley committed the images of the two people to memory, visualizing them in the scope of her rifle as Gant had taught her, even though they were not the targets. It was just a technique, one that worked well. “The two are currently holed up on their summer farm in the Virginia country-side. That’s where we’re headed now.”

“Why not just put some cops on them?”

“The State Department has a pair of security officers guarding them,” Bailey said.

Neeley considered the information, putting the pieces in place. “You want the target more than you care about the safety of the couple.”

Bailey’s mouth twitched in what might be considered a smile as he pulled a piece of gum out of his pocket and began to peel away the wrapper. “How did you come up with that?”

“Three things,” Neeley said and then she ticked them off on her long fingers. “One. It’s stupid to put them out in the country where they’re less safe. Bury them deep in the J. Edgar Hoover building or someplace like that and they’re a lot harder target to get to. Two. They already have apparent protection so I’m going to be doing something else. Three. The sniper rifle means I’m going to be standing off at a distance not standing at their side as deterrence.”

“Very good,” Bailey said as he put the gum in his mouth. “And if at all possible, we would like the target to be incapacitated, not killed. We have some rather important questions to ask of him.” He reached into the case and brought out another folder and spread three photographs out. Three men in military uniforms glared back at her. “The target will be one of these. Maybe two of them working in concert. But we doubt all three will be there.”

“And the information you want is where the others are?”

“Correct.” He pulled out another photo, this one satellite imagery. He pointed as he spoke. “The couple is in this farm-house. This is the barn. The two State Department security guys are staying outside, one doing a walking perimeter around the house and barn, the other inside this van monitoring security cameras they set up. They get relieved by another shift every twelve hours.” He took out a topographic map and placed it alongside the imagery so she could get an idea of the terrain in more than the two dimensional photographic way.

Neeley evaluated the area the way Gant had taught. Which meant looking at avenues of approach to the farm-house and fields of fire. She reached out and tapped a spot on the photo about three hundred meters from the house. A small knoll covered in trees. “Here.”

Bailey looked at and nodded. “Fine. We’ll insert you about two klicks away on the other side of this ridge.”

“The State Department security people won’t know I’m there, I assume.”

“Correct.”

“What do I do if they compromise me? They’ll think I’m an attacker.”

“Don’t let them compromise you,” Bailey simply said. He reached down and pulled up a small knapsack. “Food, a blanket, water. Enough for twenty-four hours. And a radio. FM set to the proper frequency.”

“What about exfiltration?”

“We’ll come get you.”

“Oh sure.”

Once more Bailey almost smiled. “Mister Gant taught you well, but be assured we would not waste someone of your talents by not coming to pick you up.” He reached into his briefcase and removed a small PDA. “All the information on this mission is in here. Peruse it while you wait.” He brought out a small cell phone with a headset out. “Satellite direct. We’re bringing in some more people later today and will contact you on how to rendezvous with them.”

“Who?” Neeley asked as she took the phone.

“Two people. One of them is Jack Gant.”

The first thing Emily became aware of was the smell of moisture. She slowly opened her eyes and stared at the blades of grass right in front of her face. Her eyes focused on the tiny, glistening drops of dew on the thin green blades. She edged her head forward and her tongue slithered out, sliding along the closest blades, taking in the scant moisture.

She crawled forward on her belly, licking the grass. It was only when the shackle on her ankle jerked her to a halt did she once more become aware of her surroundings and her reality. Her face was damp, her tongue barely moistened from all her efforts. The front of her shirt was smeared with dirt and grass.

And her thirst was not slated in the slightest. Emily shook her head, more at the pathetic nature of her instinctual action than anything else. She lifted her head up and looked around, remembering the animal that had come close during the night. There was no sign of—

Emily’s breathing stopped as she caught site of what was pinned to the tree she was shackled to: her driver’s license. She crawled to the tree and stared at the small piece of plastic, her own image gazing back at her. A single small thumb-tack was pressed through the center of it.

There was a vertical red line on the license, which she puzzled over for a few seconds before realizing it was dried blood. And the line continued up the bark of the tree.

Emily froze, not wanting to look up, but she knew she had to. Set in the crotch of the first branch was a dog’s severed head. Its lifeless eyes stared back at her. Emily tried to swallow but her throat was too dry. Her stomach heaved but there was nothing to vomit.

Emily turned her head, looking at the wall of vegetation surrounding the clearing. He was out there. She knew it. Watching her. She felt a chill pass through her body as she realized he’d come over to the tree in the middle of the night while she was sleeping and tacked the license there and put the dog’s head in the tree. For her to see. She knew right away his ploy: he wanted her to despair, to give up.

Emily slowly got to her feet, feeling the strain on her muscles. She stood tall, then took several deep breaths to calm down. She folded her arms across her chest, grabbing her elbows tightly with her hands for control.

“Fuck you!” she screamed. “You will not win. Fuck you, you asshole.”

In his hide site, the Sniper had adjusted the video camera set on the small tripod, making sure he caught all of Emily as she got to her feet and began screaming. He had the audio turned off, so while it was obvious she was saying something, the actual words wouldn’t be recorded. Which was just as well.

He had almost an entire hour of tape recorded over the course of the last two days. His favorite was when she worked on the shackle with the wire from her bra. He’d been concerned at first, then fascinated by her meticulous efforts. He’d even felt slightly disappointed when the wire broke. But just slightly.

Her current defiance he found almost amusing. She thought herself so important. And she was nothing, a piece in the plan. He checked his watch. A plan whose next step was getting ready to unfold.