Lost Girls

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“We’re one minute out from the safe house,” Gant announced. “What’s the plan?”

Neeley was kneeling on the floor of the cargo bay, pulling an MP-5 sub-machinegun out of her kit bag. She checked a magazine of rounds, then slammed it home into the weapon, pulling the cocking lever back. Gant already had his sub-machinegun out and ready across his knees. Neeley pulled a pistol out of the bag and offered it to Golden. The doctor looked at it for a few seconds, then reached out and took it.

“You let Cranston do what he plans to do,” Masterson said.

“What?” Gant exclaimed.

“Tell him Roberts jumped,” Masterson said. “He’ll believe Doctor Golden. Once he knows that, there’s nothing to hold him back from taking out Caulkins and Lankin.”

“What’s to keep him from taking us out?” Neeley asked.

“Because you’ll tell him the Cellar has approved the sanctions of Caulkins and Lankin,” Masterson said.

“And then?”

“And then tell him the Cellar has also approved the sanctions of the CIA’s Director of Operations, Chief of Direct Action and Roberts’ brother. We’re closing this entire mess out.”

Gant had been expecting that. “And then?”

“Have Cranston call on the cell phone the targets provided him and tell them that he’ll deliver those three to wherever Emily is currently cached. You will accompany him. I have operatives out picking those three up right now and consolidating them. I’ll have their precise location to you shortly. Is this clear?”

“Yes,” Gant said.

“Neeley?” Masterson asked.

“Clear.”

“Doctor Golden?”

Gant glanced at her. She finally nodded. “Clear. But what about Colonel Cranston?”

“He will be the last one to go down,” Masterson said.

The radio went dead just as the chopper flared for landing.

Gant stood, sub-machinegun at the ready. He slid a pair of night vision goggles over his eyes and turned them on. Neeley and Golden stood behind him, their own weapons in their hands, also wearing goggles. Gant opened the cargo bay door and walked out into the small open field in front of the one story bunker-style building. There were no lights on in the building and the front door was wide open.

“No guards,” Gant noted. Behind them, the sound of the helicopter’s blades and engine began to wind down.

“Gant,” Neeley said in a very calm voice. “Don’t move.”

“What?”

“Your chest,” she said.

Gant looked down and saw a small red dot right over his heart. Even though he had a vest on, he had no doubt that the shooter had a sniper rifle with a ‘hot’ round that would punch right through.

“Colonel Cranston?” Gant called out.

“Everyone just stay right where you are,” Cranston’s voice echoed out of the darkness from somewhere just ahead of them. “I’ve got a fifty caliber Barrett centered right on your chest, Gant. I don’t care what body armor you’re wearing, it will go through it and you and keep going for another mile.”

“Caulkins and Lankin?” Gant yelled, even though he knew the answer.

“Dead.”

“The guards?”

“Sleeping. I spiked their food. I’m not killing any more innocents. Nor allowing any more innocents to die. Where’s Roberts? Hiding in the helicopter?”

“He’s dead,” Gant said. From the voice, he figured that Cranston was on the roof of the bunker. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could tell that Neeley and Golden were remaining perfectly still.

“Bullshit,” Cranston called out. “You’re protecting him.”

“I’m from the Cellar,” Gant said. “Why would I protect someone who betrayed his job and his country? He jumped out of the chopper on the way here, not less than two minutes ago.”

The red dot on Gant’s chest didn’t waver. “Susan?” Cranston called out. “Is this true?”

“Yes, Sam. We learned the truth about what he and the others at the CIA did.”

“Those fuckers,” Cranston cursed. “They used me.”

“And you used the Special Forces team,” Gant said, taking a step forward.

“I said freeze,” Cranston snapped. “I will kill you.”

“Why?” Gant asked, taking another step. He noticed that Neeley had her sub-machinegun up, stock tight to her shoulder, remaining still, but that Golden was matching his steps forward. “I’m an innocent. Do you know where Emily is? Have you called them yet?”

“How— I was waiting for Roberts,” Cranston said.

“To leverage him to give up the other three in the CIA?” Gant asked.

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t have worked,” Gant said as he took another step. “You saw the photos. Unlike you, Roberts gave up his own daughter rather than give in. You think you could have leveraged him now?”

“But Emily—“ Cranston faltered.

Gant took another step closer, Golden at his side. “We’ll get Emily,” he said.

“How?”

Gant suddenly saw Cranston as the man stood up from behind a small berm to the right of the shelter’s door. He held the heavy sniper rifle in his arms, then slowly lowered it, dropping it. Golden ran forward and threw her arms around her former lover whether to control him or comfort him, Gant wasn’t sure.

Gant pointed at the couple, indicating for Neeley to keep an eye on them while he moved around them and into the shelter. It was as Cranston had said. Caulkins and Lankin were dead, a single round to the back of their head, slumped in their bunks. They probably never knew what hit them. The six guards were out cold on the floor but still breathing.

Gant went back outside. “Do you have the cell phone they sent you?”

Cranston nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flip phone. “But what can I say to them?”

“Tell them you’ll bring them the CIA’s Director of Operations, Chief of Direct Action and Roberts brother. But you’ll only deliver to wherever they have Emily. And we’ll want proof of life before we make a swap.”

The Sniper put the floatplane into a steady descent. He could make out the river through the night vision goggles and knew he had to hit at exactly the right spot to have enough straight water to bring the plane to a halt without hitting a bank. He reached down and flipped the plane’s wing lights on and then off just as quickly.

Less than three seconds later, the bright blip of an infrared strobe-light, invisible to the naked eye, but glaring in the night vision goggles. He focused on that point, trusting it and the instruments.

Emily lifted her head out of the quarter inch of water she had been lapping at and cocked her head. A noise. Not a train. Getting closer.

An airplane. Propeller driven. She slowly got to her feet, right hand firmly holding what remained of the folded underwire. Her hands were bleeding again, but the wire had held. She felt like she was close, very close, to turning the tumbler.

She slowly turned her head, tracking the aircraft. It was low, according to the sound, and passing from her right to left.

It was the first unusual thing that had happened since she’d been here.

And she had a bad feeling about it.

She squatted down over the lock and went back to work with a new sense of urgency.

The Sniper touched down on the river just adjacent to the strobe light flashing on the bank. As soon as the plane’s pontoons hit water, the light went out. The Sniper concentrated on slowing the craft, counting to himself, knowing how much straight river he had ahead. With three seconds to spare he had the airplane at a halt. He reversed thrust on one engine, giving a little power to the other and turned the plane around. Slowly, he cruised the plane back the way he had come.

The IR strobe came on once more and the Sniper spotted it immediately. It was no longer on the bank, but rather held by a man seated in a small rubber boat on the river. The Sniper slowed further and then cut the engine.

“Throw out the anchor,” he ordered the Spotter who had yet to say a word since they left Maine.

Emily was twisting the wire, ignoring the pain shooting through her fingers and the blood that coated them when the sound of the plane engine suddenly cut off. She didn’t pause.

The Sniper stood on the pontoon of the floatplane and tossed the duffel bag of gear to the man standing in the rubber boat. He reached back and grabbed another bag from the Spotter and tossed it over. Then he carefully stepped from the plane to the boat, the Spotter following.

The man who had taken the gear sat back down in the rear and goosed the small electric motor, driving them toward shore. He ran the bow of the boat up on a pebbly shoal, grounding. He stood up and stepped out.

“Status?” The Sniper finally asked, breaking the silence.

Drug Enforcement Agent John Finley turned and faced the two Special Forces men. “Sergeants Forten and Payne. It was regrettable that we lost Sergeant Lutz.”

“He accomplished his mission,” Forten said. “A casualty of war.”

Finley nodded. “And have you accomplished yours?”

Forten glanced at Payne. “Cranston took out Caulkin and Lankin.”

“Good for you.” The sarcasm was evident in Finley’s voice. “And I assume you cleaned up the mess with Sergeant Payne’s wife and new husband?”

“Yes,” Forten said as Payne glared at the DEA man.

Finley moved toward shore. “And Cranston? We can close out his daughter now?”

“No.” Forten said sharply, causing Finley to pause.

“’No’?” Finley repeated. “What good is she to us now? Of course, if you want to let her suffer, that’s fine with me.”

“Cranston isn’t dead,” Forten said.

“Why not?” Finley demanded.

“He called us to confirm Caulkin, Roberts and Lankin’s deaths. And to make us an offer.”

Finley stood very still. “And that offer was?”

“The Director of Operations, the Chief of Direct Action and Philip Roberts for his daughter.”

Finley leaned slightly toward Forten. “And how is he going to do that?”

“He’s bringing them here.”

The near end of the wire cut deep into Emily’s thumb, causing her to hiss in pain but she didn’t stop. She kept the pressure up, uncertain whether she was on the tumbler or not. Tears began to flow as the pain increased, but she still didn’t stop.

The pain grew so great, Emily thought she would pass out. Then there was a click and the wire slid out of her thumb into the quarter inch of water on the floor of the cistern. Emily gasped for breath, trying to combat the pain, her mind not yet processing what the click had meant. She didn’t dare believe.

Emily put her thumb in her mouth, almost savoring the taste of the blood. She stared at the shackle. Nothing appeared different. With her free hand she reached down and grabbed it.

Nothing.

She removed the thumb from her mouth and used it on the other side of the shackle and pulled.

Nothing.

Emily felt the tears well up in her eyes once more. One last time she pulled and with a slight screech of metal giving way it opened.

Emily stared at her freed ankle in disbelief.