Lost Girls

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Gant slowly got to his feet and looked over at the porch. The target was gone except for a smear of blood, the remnants of his spinal column and some chunks of meat. Surprisingly, Foley was still moving, futilely grasping at his wife with the stump of a wrist. The wife was undoubtedly dead, her throat and chest a bloody mess.

Gant shook his head, trying to clear it of the new loud ringing. The stench of death was in the air. And gunpowder and explosives. And the damn engine inside the truck was still running, the sound now a dim thrumming in the background.

He walked up the steps and knelt next to Foley. First aid would be a waste of time — the man had lost too much blood already and the wounds were too severe. Besides the severed hand, he was bleeding profusely from over a dozen places. Less than a minute Gant estimated.

“Who else was involved?” he shouted at Foley.

The State Department bureaucrat was staring at his wife’s body. Shock, both physical and emotional ruled him. “I didn’t do anything,” he whispered, a froth of blood coating his lips. “She didn’t do anything.”

Then he died.

Getting to his feet, Gant added up the body count: five if he counted the target. And they were no closer to Emily. “I’m on my way down,” Neeley called in over the radio. “Sitrep?”

“Everyone’s dead,” Gant reported.

“Golden? I lost her.”

“She’s here. She’s all right,” Gant said, although that was debatable as he watched the psychiatrist take in the gory scene. Gant was reminded of the mission he had done in Iraq the previous year and seeing the results of an improvised explosive device on a Humvee full of young National Guard troops and the surrounding innocent civilians. It was something the American public wasn’t being treated to, seeing the cost of the war on ‘terror’.

Looking at the carnage, he could tell that the target had indeed had more than just a grenade in the vest he’d been wearing and Gant knew he was only alive because he’d been able to get below the blast. Pure, damn luck. Gant reached into his pocket and pulled out the three photos. Despite the damage from the bomb and the scars on the face, he was able to ID the target he’d seen before it was blown to smithereens: Sergeant Lutz, the Security on the three-man team.

Gant went to the back of the truck and pulled open the door. He saw the motorcycle strapped in the rear and nodded. Good idea. Bad execution. He climbed in turned off the engine to the motorcycle and a blessed silence descended except for the ringing in his ears, which he knew from experience would last for a while.

Then he looked up and saw the piece of paper taped to the ceiling of the truck.

“Golden?” Gant called out.

“Yes?” She came around the corner of the truck, her hands bloody and Gant knew she had checked everyone for signs of life. She obviously didn’t have enough experience seeing dead people. Hope, Gant thought. She’d hoped someone was still alive.

“I think we might have more of Emily’s cache report.” Gant stepped between the bike and the Kevlar blankets on one side, and then leaned over so he could read what was on the paper.

“That forest is in Alabama,” Gant said as Golden came into the back on the other side of the motorcycle and looked at the report.

Golden was pulling her cell phone out. “Do you have the number for Ms. Masterson?”

“Wait a second,” Gant said.

“’Wait’?” Golden was shocked. “Emily’s chained to a damn tree and you want to wait?”

Gant looked from the report to her. “It’s only been three days. So if she is cached like the other girl, she’s all right. Plus we don’t have the azimuth and distance from the FRP to the IRP, which if I remember rightly is a stone chimney. So basically the search would have to cover the entire National Forest. I don’t know how big that one is, but I bet it’s big enough to take some time to search.”

“Still, the Cellar can get people moving and—“

“Let’s think before we act,” Gant said.

Neeley appeared in the back door shaking her head. “Fucking mess,” she said.

Gant agreed. “Yeah. No info from the target and no info from the Foley’s. He didn’t seem to have a clue why he was being attacked. Reminded me a bit of Cranston’s reaction. We underestimated the target.”

“But we got him,” Neeley noted. She tapped the motorcycle. “This wasn’t supposed to be a suicide mission. He also underestimated us.”

“’A fucking mess’?” Golden repeated. “Those people are dead.”

“We didn’t kill them,” Gant said.

“We didn’t save them either,” Golden snapped.

Gant and Neeley exchanged a look.

“Listen, Doctor,” Neeley said, “our job wasn’t to save them. They had their own security. It failed them. They should have never come out of the house. That was stupid, so they failed themselves. And he—“ Neeley nodded toward the bodies on the porch—“Foley, did something in the past that contributed to this.”

“Are you saying he deserved to die?” Golden demanded.

“We’re all going to die, deserving of it or not,” Neeley said. “His and his wife’s came sooner rather than later, but they also were stupid.”

“So people should die for being stupid?” Golden was adamant, her face flushed.

“What the hell is your problem?” Neeley asked. “We didn’t kill them. The bad guy did. And he’d have escaped to do it again to someone else if we weren’t here to stop him. It’s a tough world. Suck it up.”

“And the wife?” Golden pushed. “What did she do to deserve to die?”

“Hooked up with the wrong guy,” Neeley said. “Happens sometimes. You pick the wrong person and bad things happen to you. And, yes, stupidity is as good a reason to die as any other. Better than most. There’s people getting diagnosed with cancer every day that are going to die and they did nothing to deserve it.”

Gant opened his mouth to say something, to try to calm the two women down, but he knew they were coming from such different places, both dark in their own rights, that he wasn’t sure what to say.

Then Neeley saw the note. “What’s that?”

Gant quickly explained, sensing Golden vibrating more and more out of place on the other side of the bike.

“So he was going to take out the Foley’s and leave this partial report,” Neeley summed it up.

“But why?” Gant asked.

Both women stared at him so he explained. “Why would they give us Emily’s location? Not exact location, but a searchable area?”

“Because they’re bull-shitting us?” Neeley suggested. “Want us to waste resources on misdirection?”

“Could be,” Gant said. “Could also be an ambush.”

“Or could be Emily is already dead and they’re continuing the taunt,” Golden threw in. “But no matter what, we should inform the Cellar and get the search started.”

Gant didn’t like it. “This is the first time we’ve gotten even slightly ahead of them. Scar-face — Sergeant Lutz— expected the State Department guards and took them out easily enough, but he didn’t expect us. At least not us being here before he hit. He expected us to show up after and see this after he was gone,” he said tapping the piece of paper. “Projecting forward, they would now expect us to put all our resources into trying to find Emily’s cache.”

“And?” Golden demanded, the exasperation clear in her voice.

“Doing that will put us back behind them because it would follow their plan,” Gant said as he pulled out his Satphone and hit the speed dial for the Cellar. He quickly relayed to Mrs. Smith the cache information, and then hung up. “They’ll get locals and Feds to check out the National Park,” he told Golden and Neeley. “Bailey will head there also. He’s good at that sort of thing.”

“And what are we going to do?” Golden snapped.

“Want to waste your time walking in the woods or do something constructive?” Gant asked.

Gant walked to the rear of the truck and hopped out. Golden followed him. The bodies — and parts— littered about underscored the severity of the situation. Gant knew they had probably fifteen minutes or so before the police arrived. Mrs. Smith had told him that the helicopter was on its way and would land in ten. It would take them to the nearest airport where the jet would be waiting. Where to from there, was the key decision he knew he had to make.

Neeley had her sniper rifle in one hand, held loosely, her pack slung over one shoulder. She appeared calm and patient. Gant knew if his brother had chosen to spend almost a decade with her and had trained her, she could be counted on — plus she had taken out Racine. Golden looked a bit lost and definitely out of place. The learning curve on this mission was steep and she was either going to make it or fall out along the way. At this point, Gant really didn’t care either way.

“Going to Alabama is a waste of our time,” Gant said. He held up a hand as Golden started to protest. “The Feds and locals can get more than enough people to search. Mrs. Smith said Mister Bailey is en route there to oversee the search for the Cellar there. But I don’t think finding Emily is going to be so straight-forward. They’ve thrown us curves all along and there’s no reason to believe this will be any different.

“What I’m wondering,” Gant continued, “is what their ultimate goal is? This has not been a series of random events and I think it’s leading up to something. But what?” He looked at Golden. “What do you think Doctor?”

Golden seemed a bit surprised to be asked so bluntly. She opened her mouth to speak, then paused as she collected her thoughts. When she did speak, her voice was calmer. “I agree that this is part of a larger plan and not a series of random events. I also agree it’s critical we figure out what the end play is.” She gestured, taking in the surrounding area. “The problem is while we’re figuring that out, the body count keeps getting higher and higher.”

Neeley spoke up. “These guys want revenge, right?”

“Yeah,” Gant answered.

“And they’ve been taking it on family members,” Neeley continued. “Wanting to make those they feel wronged them suffer.”

“Correct,” Golden said.

“But the ones they’re really angry at are the players, the ones that betrayed them,” Neeley said. “I don’t think suffering is going to be sufficient payback for our targets. I think they want their victims to suffer but ultimately they’re going to want to take them out. Kill them. Pain first, then death.”

Gant considered that. “So they’ll circle around and come back after the principals after they’ve hurt them via family members? That’s not too smart. We’re on the case and the principals can be guarded. Better than this was done,” he added, noting Golden’s look of contempt.

“So they have a plan in anticipation of that,” Neeley said. “One we’re not seeing yet.”

Gant nodded. “Definitely. And everything that has happened so far is part of it. There’s a progression and we need to figure it out.” He looked at Golden. “That’s your job. You say you can predict behavior. Let’s do some predicting.”

The sound of a chopper echoed in the distance.

“If we’re not going to Alabama,” Neeley said, “where are we going?”

“DEA headquarters,” Gant said. “I want to find out the truth behind what happened in Colombia because I have a feeling even Colonel Cranston and Foley here really didn’t know the full story of what happened to that team.”

Consciousness crept into Emily slowly. An awareness of a sound, an engine running, the rumble of tires on asphalt. The sniff of a scent. The feeling of something hard beneath her. But not sight. Even when she opened her eyes there was only complete darkness and she realized she was blindfolded once more.

From the sound and the feel of the metal floor beneath her, she pieced together that once more she was in the van. And it was moving. Her hands were bound behind her. The blindfold pressed in tight against her eyes. She was surprised he hadn’t pinched shut her nostrils so she couldn’t smell, but she realized that wasn’t important to him.

Why would he move her?

It didn’t make sense. Of course, Emily knew, making sense of this insanity was probably a waste of time. On the other hand, she had nothing else to do than think about her current predicament.

Something had changed. The thought came to her unbidden, flashing out of the recesses of her subconscious. She also realized that she was a means, not an end. Moving her meant that her death was not the goal of her abduction. The crazy man driving the van wanted something more out of this.

Her suffering?

But he could have left her chained to that damn tree, Emily thought. This made no sense.

She cursed to herself as the van made a sudden, high speed turn and her body tumbled against the side, the metal hard and unyielding.

She wasn’t scared any more. She realized that with a strange, very calm wave of awareness.

She was angry to the point of counter-balancing the fear.

How dare this man she’d never met, who she had never done anything to, treat her like this?

Enough thinking. Emily felt around with her hands, searching. She scooted along the floor of the van. Bumping into objects. Until she found the edge of a metal stanchion. It wasn’t exactly sharp, but it was the best she could find in her current state. She put her back to it and began to rub the tape binding her wrists together.

“There’s something odd about this team,” Golden said.

Both Gant and Neeley stopped what they were doing and looked up at her, waiting for amplification on the statement. They were in the back of the black Gulfstream, flying toward Washington. They all had copies of the case file the Cellar had accumulated so far and were reading through, trying to find what they had missed.

“And that is?” Gant asked.

“They’re a team,” Golden said, “but they’re operating individually. I’ve never heard of that.”

Gant frowned. “You told me that there have been numerous pairs or small groups of people who act out like this.”

Golden nodded. “Yes. But they always acted in concert in the same place at the same time. Because having the other person there as a witness and participant affirms what they're doing and makes them bold. The other, weaker person — or people in this case— may feel that participating is his only way to be accepted or cared about. He's easily manipulated through his vulnerability, low self-esteem and neediness. Team members feed each other and the whole often becomes greater than the sum of its parts.”

Gant considered that. “But you’re talking about your normal, run-of-the-mill killing teams. Civilians.”

“There is no such thing as normal when you discuss killers,” Golden said.

“OK,” Gant acknowledged, “but you’re wondering how these guys are operating as a team yet separately. Your theory was that one of them, most likely Forten, was the instigator and the other two, Lutz and Payne, were followers. What you’re missing is that all three are way outside the bell curve. They were in Special Operations — the elite. They were trained — and trained in a way most civilians could never understand — to operate both as members of a team and individually when needed.

“Forten might have been the team leader, but I don’t think he’s the one instigating the other two to act. I think they’re all doing this because they want to. They have to. Whatever happened to them down in Colombia was so bad it turned all three into single-minded entities of revenge. To the point where Lutz was prepared to — and did — kill himself rather than be captured.”

Neeley stirred. “I just read the file today, but it seems to me that they were captured in Colombia by the drug cartel. Most likely tortured badly. I think it makes perfect sense they would prefer death over imprisonment again.”

“If we project that forward,” Golden said, “then ultimately they are on a suicide mission.”

Gant didn’t like that one bit. “That gives them a big advantage.”

“How so?” Golden asked.

“They can take bigger risks than we can,” Gant said. “It also means that whatever their end goal is, they don’t mind dying to achieve it. You give me three guys who are willing to die and I’ll take out any target in the world. Nine-eleven proved that.”

“That was more than three,” Golden noted.

“Four,” Gant said.

“’Four’?” Golden was puzzled. “There were—“

“Nineteen hijackers,” Gant finished for her. “But I think only the man in charge in each plane knew what was really going to happen. I suspect the others thought they were really doing a hijacking and would make demands, not use the planes as bombs.”

That brought a long silence. Golden was the one who finally broke it. “You asked me to predict what our targets’ goal is. They’ve been inflicting suffering on those they feel betrayed them somehow. Foley was the first primary that they killed and—“

Neeley interrupted. “I’m not sure the plan was to kill Foley. I think it might have been planned as a snatch operation on the wife and we foiled it. Grab the wife, leave the partial cache like they did with the Cranston girl.”

Gant considered that, as he also processed that Golden had used the term ‘targets’ rather than ‘perps’. “So their plan hit a speed bump. One, they didn’t grab Foley’s wife, so whatever role she was to play isn’t there anymore. And Payne isn’t there to play any more either.” He shook his head. “They’d have a back-up plan. A go-to-shit plan.”

Neeley agreed. “And that plan might be more bloody than their original one.”

Gant nodded. “When we did our go-to-shit plan, it was always so that even if only one person survived the team’s mission would be accomplished.” He looked at Golden. “Once we find out what happened in Colombia, you need to re-evaluate your predictive model based on the fact that our targets are Special Operators. They’re going to push the envelope of everything you’ve ever researched.” Gant’s eyes lost their focus slightly as he remembered. “I’ve done Sanctions before. There’s a reason the Cellar exists. The normal police can’t deal with this type of killer. And your normal predictive models aren’t going to be able to deal with them either.”

Golden nodded. “I’ll do that. I’ll adjust.”

“We have to be prepared for the worst,” Gant said.

Because Talladega was a National Forest, the FBI had no trouble taking charge of the search for Emily Cranston. They’d suborned the local forest rangers and the nearby sheriff’s departments to their operation. By the time Mister Bailey arrived, the search was well under way and consisted of over three hundred men and women along with three helicopters. Of course, all they were working on was the information that some psycho had kidnapped a girl and was holding her somewhere in the Park.

Bailey entered the field command post, which was set up in the Park Ranger Headquarters. For a minute he stood in the back of the room, watching the hustle and bustle of people on a mission. He unwrapped a piece of gum and popped it in his mouth. He saw the grid lines drawn on the map of the park that was tacked to the wall and knew the FBI was playing it by the book.

Bailey shook his head and it must have been the movement that caught the attention of a distinguished looking, white-haired woman who apparently was in charge. She strode across the room, the other agents parting way for her, until she was right in front of Bailey. “You’re the man I was called about from Washington?”

Bailey nodded.

“I’m Special Agent in Charge Bateman.” She wasted no time indicating she didn’t like the idea of oversight, even though she had no clue who the overseer was. Nero’s missives to various agencies rarely went over well, although they did go over. “And you don’t like something we’re doing?”

“Who’s the most experienced Park Ranger?” Bailey asked. “The one who knows the park the best?”

Special Agent in Charge Bateman turned and crooked a finger. A wizened little old man in a rumpled Park Ranger uniform and a battered Smoky-The-Bear hat ambled over. “Yes, sir?”

“Any old stone chimneys in the Park?” Bailey asked. He could see Bateman’s frown turn to anger as she realized information had been withheld. A couple of hours wouldn’t make any difference for Emily Cranston, Nero had argued, and he wanted Bailey on scene when they found the cache spot. The others could mess the scene up. Plus, there was the possibility the Sniper — Forten — was on site.

Bailey had received the report on what had happened at the farm-house and knew they had taken down one-third of the targets. There was a good chance another third was located here and could be taken out. He estimated the probability of finding Emily Cranston alive here to be rather low so he did not consider that an issue to be factored into the plan.

The old Ranger frowned in thought. “Yah. There’s some old log cabins that pre-dated the establishment of the National Forest here and there throughout the Park. Most have gone to seed, rotted out. Only thing left of most of ‘em is the chimney. Made them chimneys good in the old days.”

“How many and where?” Bailey asked.

The Ranger walked over to the map. “There was a logging camp here. Small cluster of chimneys in the spot.”

“A single chimney,” Bailey said, knowing that the immediate reference point had to be exact. “And it might be near the intersections of Routes 219 and 183.”

The Ranger stared at the map while he tried to remember. Meanwhile, Bateman placed herself in front of Bailey. “You’ve withheld information.” She said it as a fact.

Bailey popped his gum. “Just learned it myself,” he lied.

“Who the hell are you?” Bateman demanded.

“You have your orders,” Bailey said.

“And I follow them,” Bateman said, “but not blindly. Who are you? What agency are you with?”

Bailey noted that the other agents in the room had become still, trying to hear. The Ranger was still staring at the map, but even his head was cocked toward the two of them, trying to listen in. This was the part of the job that simply tired Bailey out. Turf wars and people concerned with their careers. He leaned forward, his mouth just inches from Bateman’s ear and whispered.

“I’m with the Cellar.”

He had to give her credit. The only obvious reaction — and it wasn’t that obvious — was her face got pale. She took a slight step back and nodded ever so slightly. “All right then.”

Bailey knew that she had little idea what the Cellar really was — no one outside of it did. But he also knew she’d heard the whispers and the rumors. And she appeared to be smart enough to realize that rumors sometimes never equaled the truth.

The other agents exchanged puzzled glances, wondering what had been said. The Park Ranger reached toward the map with a gnarled finger. “Here. There’s a stone chimney all by its self. Not easy to find if you didn’t know it was there. Mostly overgrown with vines. But it’s only about a half mile from the intersection of those two roads.”

Bailey looked at the map. He reached over to a nearby desk and grabbed an index card. He placed it against the distance scale on the bottom of the map, ticked off a smidge more than two-hundred meters then placed it on the map, swinging it around to an approximation of two-hundred and seventy-four degrees. He marked that spot.

“Know that place?”

The Ranger stared at it. “Small clearing. There’s a big old oak tree in the middle.”

“That’s it,” Bailey said to Bateman. “There’s a good chance the target — perp — is in the area watching the girl. She’s most likely chained to the tree. It could be an ambush. The perp is a trained sniper. Also has access to mines and explosives.”

“Jesus,” Batemen muttered. “Who the hell is this guy?”

“Might be two guys,” Bailey said, adding to her dilemma. “But most likely just one.” He paused. “They’re former Special Operations.”

Bateman nodded. Then she turned to her agents and began barking out orders. She ended with: “Let’s get the girl!” Within seconds the room was clear except for Bailey, Bateman and the old Ranger.

“I’ve got a chopper inbound,” Bateman said. “We can be there in five minutes, but I’m letting the HRT team go in first. They’re already airborne and en route.”

Bailey nodded. The Hostage Rescue Team was a good idea. Well-trained and as good as any domestic police force could field. Hell, they were trained by Special Operations people and had lots of real world experience.

Against civilian criminals, Bailey realized.

He followed Bateman out to the parking lot as a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter landed. They climbed in the back. As the chopper lifted, Bailey looked back at the building and saw the old Ranger standing in the doorway, staring back at him. Just before they cleared the trees around the lot, Bailey saw the old man turn away.

The chopper banked and the building was out of sight. Bailey was experiencing an unusual feeling of discomfort and he couldn’t quite place the reason why.

“HRT is one minute out from the site,” Bateman said to him over the intercom.

Every piece of the puzzle that was leading them to this site had been given to them, Bailey realized. The logic flow was clear: they were meant to find this spot, which meant either that they would find Emily Cranston’s body or it was an ambush.

“Too easy,” Bailey said.

Bateman turned to him. “What?”

“It’s too easy. It’s a trap.”

“HRT’s ready,” Bateman said.

I doubt it, Bailey thought, but did not voice. He pulled another piece of gum out and opened it. “It’s a trap,” he repeated.

“Thirty seconds out,” Bateman announced, listening in to the tactical channel. She looked at Bailey. “HRT’s prepared. We’ve got to save the girl.”

Bailey popped the gum in his mouth. He knew she had the single-minded focus. She’s never been spanked, smashed, defeated, beaten by someone meaner and nastier. He had a feeling that was about to change and he knew there was nothing he could say that would get that feeling across to her.

The helicopter they were on gained altitude and Bailey could now see the two Huey choppers flying in low over the trees from the west. Men in black fatigues with body armor and helmets lined the skids, ready to jump off, weapons pointed outward. The chopper Bailey was on gained altitude so that they could now see the clearing.

Bailey noted the large oak tree in the center and the fact there was no sign of Emily Cranston. The two Hueys touched down briefly on either side of the oak tree, the HRT members jumping off and hitting the ground, and then the choppers were back up in the air to take up over-watch positions.

There was a moment of stillness. Even inside the hovering helicopter, with the turbine engines whining behind him and the blades whopping by overhead, Bailey could sense it. And he knew exactly what the feeling meant. Danger.

The HRT members got to their feet, weapons at the ready. Bailey could hear them on the tactical net. They confirmed what could be seen from the air: no sign of Emily Cranston.

But there was a chain around the tree.

One of the men moved toward the tree, made four steps, then disappeared in a flash of explosion. A couple of the others ran to his position and both also hit mines.

“Everyone freeze!” Bailey yelled over the tactical net, trying to over-ride the confused chatter that had almost overwhelmed the radio system. “Do not move.”

Beside him Bateman was shocked, her eyes wide, taking in the disaster below them.

Bailey looked through binoculars at the clearing. There were three bodies, bloodied and not moving. A couple of other HRT members were down, wounded. Claymore mines, Bailey realized. Set on trip wires. The entire clearing was probably laced with them.

Bateman still seemed stunned. Bailey decided this wasn’t the time to be political, not that such a consideration was ever high on his list. He turned to her. “Have your choppers drop STABO lines to those not wounded to lift them, then hover them over to the wounded and hook in. Two men on a line. Get the wounded to the Ranger station. Then evac all those in the field. Then get explosives experts out here. It’s going to take a while to clear that field.”

Which was the point, Bailey knew. Slow down the pursuers. It was a classic military tactic, except in this case, the true pursuers were at DEA headquarters. Bailey leaned back in the seat as Bateman yelled orders over the radio.

He turned to the side and spit his gum out of the chopper as he considered the fact that the game was getting closer to the end point.