Lost Girls

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was her fourth night of captivity. It took Emily several minutes to figure out the exact number. One night in the van being taken to the forest. Two nights in the forest. And her first night here. She no longer felt hungry. There were no more rumbles of protest from her stomach. She didn’t understand why that was and did not take it as a positive development. Even her mental gymnastics to view her growing weight loss in a positive light had faded to nothing. Skinny and dead wasn’t a good combination.

Thirst was another matter, a constant that was steadily growing worse. Her mouth was beyond parched. Her skin felt dry and tight. Her hands and feet were swollen. But the largest tell on her level of dehydration was the lack of tears. She realized she had not produced tears when she cried in many hours. The crying jags would come on her unexpectedly and were becoming more and more frequent.

Another train had come by just after the sunset and she had been able to see the glow of the train’s lights over the lip of the cistern. She couldn’t help the surge of frustration as she futilely screamed for help as the train rattled by.

The silence that descended after the train passed was absolute, once more making her miss the noise of the forest although not the animals. She realized from both the lack of sound and the lack of humidity that she had to be in an almost desert environment, which meant she had most likely been moved west from her previous location.

Emily lay on her back, staring up at the stars. She had made no progress on the lock using the wire from her bra. Remembering her earlier failure she had been loath to put much pressure on the wire, but she also knew that to turn the tumbler would take a strong effort, a Catch-22 gamble that she was not ready to take. She had the wire in her left hand, a piece of security and there was a part of her that felt if it broke, she would break.

The wire was to be a last resort now, when she reached a critical point. People had to be looking for her. Perhaps a helicopter or plane would fly overhead and someone would spot her. Perhaps she was being held for ransom, although she knew her father was not a rich man, and it would be paid and then she would be rescued.

There was a constellation almost directly overhead but Emily had never studied the stars so she had no idea which one it was. She imagined her father would know and then be able to pinpoint where she was on the ground from the alignment of the stars but that skill, along with others he had possessed, she had never had much of a desire to learn.

She realized she had not thought of her father or mother much at all since she’d been kidnapped. Their divorce had created a chasm between all three of them that had not begun to heal. She knew they would be frantic about her being missing. A small, selfish part of her relished the thought that they would finally be focused on her and not their own situation.

Not that it did her any good.

Something fluttered by overhead, startling her out of her emotional musings. She cocked her head, trying to hear the beat of wings again. And it came, closer and then something landed on the lip of the cistern.

A large bird. A black figure against the dark sky. Emily wearily got to her feet to see it more clearly. If she could catch it, then she could drink its blood. Eat whatever meat was on its bones. It could—

Emily froze as she realized it was a buzzard.

And it was waiting for her meat.

Gant was glad to be on his own. On the way to the airfield Golden had suggested she do more research on the two surviving targets while Gant went to Maine to try to figure out exactly what they were up to. It was a plan, albeit a half-ass one in Gant’s opinion. As the jet carrying her raced west, Gant was on board an Air Force Combat Talon that he had specifically requested be put on standby for his use after the debacle in Virginia. Gant was dressed in black combat fatigues and the rear half of the aircraft was full of gear on several pallets that he had put in as a standing packing list for the aircraft, allowing him to be prepared for numerous contingencies. The front quarter of the aircraft cargo bay was separated from the rest by a thick black curtain and was lined with computer and imaging consoles, manned by Air Force specialists.

The Talon was the Special Operations version of the venerable C-130 Hercules cargo plane. It was equipped with terrain-following, and more importantly, terrain-avoidance radars, which allowed it to fly at operational speeds as low as two hundred and fifty feet above ground level in adverse weather conditions.

Sitting in the back of the specially equipped cargo plane, he used one of the secure satellite communications consoles and dialed Nero’s special satellite secure number. Even though it was nine in the evening, he felt reasonably confident he would get the old man.

He was surprised when a woman answered on the second ring. “This is Ms. Masterson. What can I do for you, Mister Gant?”

“Is Mister Nero there?” Gant asked, realizing his mistake right away.

“Mister Nero is indisposed at the moment,” Masterson said.

A silence played out, then her voice came back, sharper. “I assume you called for a reason. I received your situation report an hour ago. You’re on a flight to Maine and Doctor Golden is on her way to interview Sergeant Forten’s adoptive mother. One of his adoptive mothers that is, the one she felt was critical in the formation of what he is now. At least according to her predictive behavior model. Is there something else I need to know? Or that you need to know?”

Gant held back his sigh. “Do you have any suggestions as to a course of action?”

“That was hard, wasn’t it, Mister Gant? This is the first time since you’ve started on this Sanction that you’ve asked my opinion.”

“You have all the data,” Gant said.

“It’s about more than data.”

Gant forced himself to relax his grip on the phone. “There’s a pattern to what they’re doing. I don’t quite see it yet, but I’m guessing they’re taking out the warlord next, then they’ll start going after the primary players whose families they’ve already hurt.”

“You’re guessing?”

“Based on my experience, yes.”

“I concur with your guess,” Masterson said. “The initiating event was the kidnapping of Tracy Caulkins over three weeks ago. By itself, that raised no alarms. They chained her to that tree in Tennessee and kept her alive, barely alive, while they waited to do their next step and she grew weaker and weaker.

“The next step, of course, was the kidnapping of Emily Cranston and the leaving of the two partial caches,” Masterson continued. “They must have known that would start the clock ticking. Not the kidnapping, but the cache reports. A very clear indicator of who the perpetrators were and their background. And they also must have known the connection between Cranston and Caulkins would be made relatively quickly. So they moved faster. They took out Kathy Svoboda and Caleigh Roberts within twenty-four hours. By doing that, they let us know this wasn’t the work of one individual. These were not random acts done in a random order.”

Gant was following her reasoning, which was in line with what he had already figured out. What she said next though, he had not thought of. “They left the rest of Caulkins cache report with Svoboda’s body. That was to misdirect us while they moved forward. In essence, we were moving backwards. Three weeks back. A smart ploy, but one you must have sensed.”

Gant couldn’t tell if she was being serious or if she was pointing out his failure.

“It was your initiative,” Masterson said, “that got you to the farm in Virginia in time to interdict Lutz. They must have considered that a possibility, but not one with a high probability. So score one for the good guys.”

“But they still got Foley and his wife,” Gant said, still trying to figure out what Masterson was really saying.

“And we got Lutz. They were collateral damage.”

Gant thought Masterson should have a long talk with Roberts about collateral damage. “So what about Emily Cranston?”

“She’s still alive,” Masterson said. “She has a role to play beyond that of simply tormenting the good colonel.”

“What role?”

“Well, she already played a role in the ambush that killed two of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team members. That ambush was meant for you. Those who operate in the covert world, such as our targets, must have heard whispers of the Cellar, so they wanted to use that cache ambush as a counter-action against us. But again, we out-maneuvered them. Since they gave us a partial on her new location, I foresee her having another role to play. So there will soon be an event where we get the rest of the cache report.”

“Taking out the warlord in Maine?”

“I think that is the next action but I don’t think they will leave the rest of the report there,” Masterson said. “It doesn’t fit what they’ve done before. I just talked to Doctor Golden reference this matter and she believes they will act in pattern.”

Gant silently cursed. She’d just talked to Golden. First, before talking to him. Just great. “What pattern?”

“According to Golden they will recreate the original mission with regard to the warlord.”

“Sniper.”

“Correct. I concur with her belief in this matter.”

Gant glanced down at the pile of gear on the pallet at his feet, already deciding what he needed and what could remain on the plane. He gestured toward one the pallets, getting the load-master’s attention. He indicated for the man to begin rigging what he needed with a parachute. Then he considered whether he should radio ahead to the CIA compound and warn the guards.

“Who else is left for them to leave the rest of Emily’s new cache report with?” Gant asked even as he decided against the warning until he was sure of his guess. The guards’ priority would be protecting the compound and its inhabitants, not taking down the attackers. A reaction in the guard force could scare off the targets.

“A good question,” Masterson said. “And frankly, I don’t know. I believe there’s a piece to this entire thing we haven’t yet seen.”

“Maybe more than one piece,” Gant said.

“Quite possibly. They have had quite a bit of time to plan this.”

“Not much else to do when you’re imprisoned and being tortured for months on end,” Gant said.

“Correct.” Masterson’s voice was dry, unemotional. “And we have only had three days to react. I think you’ve done quite well.”

Gant was surprised. Nero had never praised or complimented him in all the years and over all the missions he had run. He didn’t know what to say.

“And my friend Neeley?” Masterson asked.

Friend? “What about her?”

“Has she been helpful?”

“Yes.”

“And Doctor Golden?”

“Uh—“

“You feel she has not been of assistance?”

“She’s trying,” Gant allowed.

“It is a steep learning curve to suddenly be thrust into this world,” Masterson said and Gant read something into that statement.

“I don’t have time to be a teacher and—“

“Who taught you? Who was your mentor in the covert world?”

Gant felt a weight on his chest. “My brother, Tony.”

“And he taught Neeley. And Neeley taught me. It’s your turn to teach. I have great expectations of Doctor Golden.”

The phone went dead.

The Sniper looked through the thermal scope. He was strangely depressed. The target was clear in the sight. Lying on his bed in the pre-fab building, reading a magazine.

It should not be this simple.

Not after all that had happened. The pain and terror of those ten months spent in the prison in Colombia. Perhaps the Spotter had a point. Perhaps something closer, more personal and slower would be better. The Sniper could remember every single devious and painful physical and psychological torture that had been inflicted on his body and mind over that time period. He had no doubt he could replicate the worst of them.

But that wasn’t the plan. Always best to stick with the plan, the Sniper thought. Not sticking with the plan was what had started all this a year ago.

For a moment the Sniper paused, even shaking his head, as if that could make things clearer. Orders. Betrayal.

Colombia. The mission. Take out the warlord. Who he was now looking at through his scope. Why hadn’t he done that?

The Sniper removed his off-hand from the gun and rubbed it along the side of his head, tracing the scar. He could feel pain, throbbing deep, right into his brain, searing through skin and bone into his very essence. Just like the probes and blades of the interrogator had.

The questions that made no sense. That there was no correct response to.

He’d told everything he knew to stop the pain and it hadn’t stopped it. And the pain of that betrayal of the Code that he had sworn to uphold had cut as deep as the knife.

Why hadn’t they come for him and his team?

The Sniper centered the reticules on the target’s head. He had already adjusted for the elevation difference and the slight breeze. With a little luck the body wouldn’t be found until early morning when all the detainees had roll call. By then the Sniper and Spotter would be long gone, moving on to the next phase of operations.

Why had they been abandoned?

The Sniper felt the rhythm of his breathing and of his heartbeat.

He shut down the murmuring in his brain.

Then he heard the inbound aircraft.

Gant was behind one of the imaging specialists, staring down at the thermal display the man was working. He had used the Talon two years previously in the same manner, to hunt for a target on the ground using heat signature and it had worked quite well. He had checked the satellite imagery faxed to the plane of the area around the CIA secret compound and traced out the most likely spots for a sniper to set up.

The pilot had the plane flying as slow as possible, just above stall speed, as he began to follow the path Gant had traced. The thermal hot spots flashed by quickly, barely giving Gant time to try to identify them. Deer were easy. There were numerous specks of heat — squirrels, rabbits, etc.

Needle in a forest, Gant thought as the pilot put the plane in a lazy, slow bank. Gant could almost sense the plane slipping, losing altitude but he trusted the pilots as he kept his focus on the screen, his hands gripping the back of the imager’s seat.

“We’ve got a query from the compound,” the pilot announced the intercom. “We’re violating restricted airspace.”

“Click me in,” Gant ordered, keeping his eyes on the screen.

The headset crackled for a second and then Gant heard what the pilots had been receiving: “Unidentified aircraft, this is the United States government. You are flying over restricted airspace. Break off on a heading of nine-zero degrees immediately or face dire consequences.”

Who the hell came up with this crap? Gant wondered. He let go of the imager’s seat and hit the transmit. “This is the United States government, security clearance Alpha One One Six. I am over-flying your position in an Air Force C-130 to search for possible intruders.”

There was a long silence and Gant could well imagine the confusion in the small headquarters for the compound.

“Identify yourself,” the voice finally came back with.

“I gave you my clearance,” Gant said. “Check with your higher for my authorization.”

Gant frowned as he spotted two glowing objects flash by on the screen. Two human forms, lying prone on the ground. He contacted the pilot and indicated for him to circle round.

“What are the intruders after?” the voice from the compound inquired.

Gant considered whether he should answer that question — tell them the intruders were a sniper team and who they were there to kill. He decided against it. “Do you have a reaction capability off the island?”

“We have two vehicles at the landing.”

“Get your reaction force ready. I’ll be on the ground shortly.”

The Sniper was looking up as the familiar sound of the four turbo-prop engines of a C-130 cargo plane grew closer. It was a sound anyone who had ever served in an airborne unit could easily recognize. Finally, he saw the silhouette of the plane fly directly overhead, less than five hundred feet above them. And he recognized the jutting radar pod and Fulton Extraction whiskers on the front of the plane, indicating it was a Special Operations Combat Talon. This was not a random C-130 flight. He glanced over at the Spotter who had a set of night vision goggles glued to his eyes.

“What do you have?” he asked.

The Spotter lowered the goggles as the plane began to bank. The Sniper already knew they had been spotted and the plane was circling back for another look.

“Blacked out MC-130 Talon with no identification markings,” the Spotter said as he lowered the goggles. “And it’s coming back for another look,” he added unnecessarily.

First Virginia and now this, the Sniper thought. Whoever was after them was fast, very fast. Faster than they had worst-cased. He briefly wondered if the ambush at the empty cache site in Alabama had achieved anything.

Déjà vu. If he’d had a sense of humor, the Sniper might have appreciated the irony of his current situation as it indeed mirrored what had happened in Colombia when they’d tried to take out the same target. However, whatever reservoir of humor he’d gone into that mission with had been quickly drained under the brutal hand of the torturer.

“We should exfiltrate,” the Spotter said.

The Sniper nodded but he had already put his eye back on the thermal sight and was zeroing in on the target. Nothing was going to stop him from fulfilling the mission this time.

Gant tightened down the straps on his parachute harness one last time and looked across at the load-master holding on to the static line cable attached to the pallet holding the off-road motorcycle. Both men took a subconscious step back as the back ramp cracked open, revealing the night sky and allowing the swirling wind to blast them. Gant had spotted a clear cut opening less than a quarter mile from the two heat signatures and that was where he had directed the pilot to drop him.

It wasn’t a very big opening, perhaps a half-mile long by a quarter mile wide, so Gant had also ordered the pilot to take the Talon down low, below safety restrictions, to less than four hundred feet above ground level. Gant edged forward, to the very lip of the back ramp, his eyes focused on the red light glowing up in the darkness of the interior tail of the plane.

“The ramp is open,” the Spotter reported, tracking the in-bound Talon through the night vision goggles. “We’re going to have company.”

The Sniper ignored him, his entire essence focused on the target. Lights were going on in the compound, which meant whoever was in the plane had alerted the guards. There wasn’t any more time.

The Sniper squeezed the trigger.

The sub-sonic round raced down the barrel, through the sound suppressor and through the night sky. It punched through the thin plywood wall of the building and hit the target in the side of the head, taking most of his skull with it as it continued across the room and buried itself in the rough wood floor.

The Sniper was on his feet, breaking the rifle down.

The light turned green and Gant stepped off into the darkness as the load-master shoved the pallet. Barely two seconds after leaving the aircraft, Gant’s chute snapped open, jarring him.

He barely had time to glance down, note the ground was coming up fast, get his body into landing position: feet and knees together, knees slight bent, elbows rotated in front of his face as his hands pulled on the risers to try to slow his descent.

Gant slammed into the ground, the impact up the right side of his body until he came to a halt, breathing hard. He took that split second to savor being alive, then he quickly got to his feet and unbuckled his harness. He put on night vision goggles and scanned the area for the pallet. He spotted the other parachute about forty feet away and he made his way toward it, his MP-5 sub-machinegun at the ready.

The small plug in his ear came alive with the information that the warlord had been shot. For Gant that was good news, confirming that the two thermal images he had spotted were indeed his targets. He nodded as he reached the padded pallet with the motorcycle strapped on top of it. The targets were close.