Lost Girls

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Blackhawk helicopter landed on the top of CIA headquarters in the midst of a massive Mexican stand-off. Mister Bailey stood to the side of the landing pad holding a gun on three men. Surrounding him were a dozen CIA agents dressed in black with automatic weapons.

“This is going to be fun,” Gant muttered as the wheels settled down and he opened the side door. He stepped out, Neeley at his side, both of them weapons at the ready.

“Good evening, Mister Gant,” Bailey called out over the noise of the chopper, seemingly unconcerned about the ring of weapons pointed at him. The three men were flex cuffed, hands behind their back, and looked decidedly unhappy at the current situation.

Bailey continued. “I tried to explain to our comrades in the Central Intelligence Agency that I am acting under the Cellar’s pre-eminent mandate. They don’t seem to be accepting that. We are awaiting the arrival of the Director himself.”

Gant stared at the three senior bureaucrats. In the harsh glare of the landing lights, their faces were pale, their normal bravado shaken. He’d ordered Cranston to stay in the chopper — no need to add him to the mixture.

The sound of the chopper lessened as the pilot went to idle. Gant checked his watch. According to the rest of the cache report they had received during Cranston’s phone call to the targets, Emily was located in north Texas. From here they were to go to the airfield and board a fast plane to get close, then board another chopper.

“This is bullshit!” One of the men cried out.

Gant walked past Bailey who was placidly chewing his gum but very alertly keeping his weapon trained on the three. “Who the fuck are you?” Gant asked.

The man drew himself up in his finely tailored suit. “I’m Hugh Stanton, Central Intelligence Agency, Director of Operations.”

Gant shrugged. “You heard of Finley? Forten? Payne? Lutz?”

Stanton took a step back. Gant looked at the other two men. “Who’s Paul Roberts?”

“I am.” He was tall, tanned, with shoulder length hair and Gant could tell right away he had not left his undercover days behind. Some never could.

“Your brother is dead,” Gant said.

“You fuckers,” Roberts snarled.

“He killed himself,” Gant said. “Threw himself out of the chopper when the truth was finally given the light of day.”

A muscle twitched on the side of Roberts’ face. Bailey popped his gum. “Calm down.” The hand holding the pistol was rock-steady.

Everyone turned as the door to roof access slammed open and a man in a finely cut suit came walking out. Gant recognized the Director of the CIA from his photos and the man looked none too pleased at the current situation.

“Who’s in charge here?” the Director demanded.

“The Cellar,” Bailey said calmly. “These three men have been seconded to the Cellar for the duration of the mission.”

“What mission?” the Director was confused.

“You don’t have a need to know,” Bailey said. He popped his gum once more. Then he spit it out, the sodden mass landing at the Director’s feet. “You may call Mister Nero if you have any questions. Do you have any questions?”

The Director’s face flushed beet red. “When will they be back?”

“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Bailey said. He wagged the gun at the three men. “Time’s a wasting gentlemen. Please board your flight. The sooner we get started, the sooner this will be over.”

The three men turned and looked at their boss. The Director shifted his feet, avoiding their eyes, then jerked his thumb to the commander of the armed guards. Sullenly, the CIA triggermen lowered their weapons and headed for the door. Gant stood aside as the three CIA men clambered on board the chopper, then he followed with Bailey and Neeley. The door was slid shut and they were airborne heading to Andrews Air Force Base to cross-load onto a waiting Combat Talon.

Emily got to her feet and slowly walked in a circle, reveling in the feeling of freedom. The leg that had been shackled felt like it could float in the air. There was just under a quarter inch of water left in the bottom of the tank and she got on all fours and lapped some of it, not even conscious of what she looked like doing this and the level to which she had been reduced.

Then she stood once more and slowly walked the outside of the tank, hands on the wood. Her initial feeling of elation began to drain out of her with each step as she felt how solid the boards were. She looked up at the lip of the tank and reached upward, her hands a good two and a half feet from the top. She squatted and jumped, barely lifting a foot off the ground in her weakened condition and when she landed, her knees buckled and she fell hard to the floor of the tank with a slight splash.

Emily lay there panting.

She’d escaped only the shackle but not the prison.

Finley stood with his arms crossed, staring down the dusty main street toward the rail line a quarter mile away on the other side of the ghost town. The water tank was visible just to the right, towering over the dilapidated train station. He was flanked by Forten and Payne, the two men carrying their duffle bags full of gear and looking somewhat tired after their recent exertions.

The town was small, the largest structure being the abandoned textile factory on the western edge. Along main street were single story brick buildings, the windows broken out. A church on the eastern side of the street dominated the entire area with its fifty-foot high bell steeple.

“She still alive?” Payne asked.

“Who cares?” Finley questioned in turn.

“Cranston wants proof of life before giving up the men he has,” Forten said.

Finley turned and looked at him. “You think Cranston is coming alone?”

“Of course not,” Forten replied. He slapped the side of his duffle bag, eliciting thud of metal on metal. “That’s why we brought the goodies. But I do think he’s bringing the men you want. And we want him. The rest—“ he shrugged— “we kill if they get in our way.”

“So how do we give them proof of life?” Forten asked.

Finley gave a cold smile. “Oh, they’ll have a chance to see her. The cache report I gave them has her right here in the middle of main street. So we’re going to have a good old-fashioned showdown.”

The three CIA men were ducks in row, seated next to each other on the starboard side of the plane, with Cranston flanking them on the right. Very unhappy ducks. Bailey had his pistol loosely held in one hand along the port side, but Gant didn’t get the feeling there was much fight left in the three men. Of course, they might do as the elder of the Roberts’ brother had done and do a dive, but that wasn’t anything he felt concerned about since the back of the plane was sealed.

For a moment, Gant paused. The thought of the Roberts’ brothers brought up an image of his own brother. He was surprised to realize that since he had started this mission he had not really thought much about his brother’s death. Or his life. Gant glanced to his right where Neeley was seated next to him. He could feel the warmth of her body and her arm pressing against his.

As if sensing his thoughts, Neeley turned and looked at him, her dark eyes barely visible in the dimly lit cargo bay of the Combat Talon. She nodded, as if acknowledging something and Gant was surprised to find himself nodding back at her. She then inclined her head, indicating Doctor Golden, who, as usual, was immersed in her laptop, which was hooked to the plane’s satellite communication system and via that, to the Cellar.

Gant turned to Bailey. “What do you have on the cache location?” He, Neeley, Golden and Bailey were wearing headsets on their own intercom loop.

“A ghost town,” Bailey said succinctly. Something about that was significant enough to draw Golden’s attention away from her computer for the moment.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“It’s a ghost town,” Bailey repeated. “Ms. Masterson forwarded me the data. Small town, northern Texas. Textile factory went out of business in the fifties, the town died out. No one lives there anymore and since it was on the end of a county line road no one drives through either. The rail line is on the south side of the town. Rarely used, maybe three, four times a day by freight trains, no passenger trains.”

“Satellite imagery?” Gant asked.

Bailey shook his head. “Nope. We tend to put our satellites over other countries to spy, not our own.”

“So we’re going in blind,” Neeley said, “and they know we’re coming.”

“We’re going in to trade,” Bailey said, indicating the three CIA men and Colonel Cranston.

“Right,” Gant said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

“We have an FM frequency to contact Finley on, once we get in radio range,” Bailey said.

“We need a plan,” Gant said.

Bailey glanced at his watch. “We’ve got four hours flight time to the location. Plan away.”

“What about back-up?” Neeley asked.

Bailey shook his head. “We’re it other than aircraft and logistical support. Ms. Masterson believes — and Mister Nero concurs — that what happens today be kept as tightly held as possible.”

Emily went to the exact center of her wooden prison, the bolt that her shackle had been chained to right between her feet. Slowly she looked around, trying to see what she had missed. It was still dark out, but there was a half moon and her eyes had adjusted to the moon and star light. Dawn was several hours off as near as she could guess.

The floor was solid. Too thick.

The planks surrounding her were also solid and thick.

The rim of the cistern was out of reach. Too high.

She couldn’t go down.

She couldn’t go to the side.

Emily looked up once more to the rim of her prison. It was the only way. She had to make up the gap between where she could reach and the top.

Emily shook her head, dizzy from the lack of food. This was not a complicated problem. Quite simple. She had limited supplies to work with. Just as she had had when she opened the shackle. Basically her body and her clothes.

Shoes. Skirt. Panties. The bra — well, not much left there. Blouse. Sweater.

If she piled them up — Emily laughed at the absurdity. She’d gain an inch maybe. She was hydrated but realizing the lack of food had lowered her IQ considerably.

An inch closer would do no good.

She slowly turned once more staring at the rim and came to a halt. Two of the boards came apart from each other ever so slightly near the top. She walked over to the wall and stared at the small notch near the top. Only about a half inch wide and two inches down. Still not close enough to reach.

Emily sat down and put her head in her hands, trying to get her brain working right. This was a problem. Problems could be solved.

And in the midst of her thinking she heard something.

Voices.

Emily opened her mouth to scream for help, then she paused. She could only catch a phrase here and there, but someone was talking about making sure everything was ready, which did not sound like a rescue team to her.

And then another voice spoke and she sat bolt upright. A voice she’d heard before. The voice that had left her chained to a tree. The voice that belonged to the man with the dead eyes.

Finley stood at the south end of main street with Forten and Payne. They wore body armor, had sub-machineguns slung over their shoulders and automatic pistols in thigh holsters. Forten held his sniper rifle in the crook of his arms. The night air was calm, a stillness that was very deep. Dawn was a couple of hours off.

The three men now echoed the stillness around them after Finley had ascertained that each had double-checked their positions. They were staring down the dusty main road of the town, as if expecting a posse to come riding in from the north.

Payne was the first one to look over his shoulder as a faint noise intruded from the east. They all turned and looked in that direction, watching the headlight of the freight train growing closer in concert with the noise. The train rumbled by, the cabin of the locomotive a bright glow, a single figure silhouetted, staring ahead into the darkness, never noticing the three men less than a hundred feet away. After a minute and a half the caboose rolled by, red lights glowing.

The sound of the train faded and silence once again reigned until Finley spoke. “Arm the charges.”

Emily felt her heart skip a beat.

As the train had gone by, she’d tried to absorb the fact that ‘voices’ meant that her abductor wasn’t alone. And now there were ‘charges’ to be armed? What the fuck was going on?

Someone was coming. For her. She knew it. That’s what they, whoever the voices belonged to, were preparing for.

Her father.

“Take your positions.”

She heard the voice clearly. They would be looking for her father. Not at the water tower.

Emily stared up at the small notch between the two boards. She knew it held the answer. She just couldn’t drag it up out of her exhausted mind.