Lost Girls

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Payne’s wife and new husband were found dead,” Golden announced.

Gant had his eyes closed, taking these last moments of rest, after having just laid out the best plan he could come up with given the circumstances. Golden’s news was no surprise.

“The husband had been dead around three days,” Golden continued. “The wife was killed less than six hours ago.”

Neeley did the math. “So they killed her on the way out of Maine.”

“It appears so. Jesus.” Golden was obviously disgusted as she read the latest data from the Cellar. “The husband’s body was tied to a chair in front of a bed. The wife was tied to the bed. So she had two and a half days tied there staring at his corpse.”

“No shit,” Gant snapped, coming out of his rest. “Are you just figuring out these guys are fucking nuts? When we hit the ground in Texas we all need to remember that. We get Emily and we take them out. No mercy.”

Neeley nodded. Golden just stared at him. Bailey popped his gum. Across the way, the three CIA men and Cranston were dark figures that Gant could care less about at this point. They had started this mess. He was going to end it.

Golden continued reading the information from the Cellar. “A truck was found abandoned at the house. Forten and Payne’s fingerprints were all over it.”

“So they don’t care about being identified any more,” Gant said.

“Apparently not,” Golden said.

“Wait a second,” Neeley interrupted. “If they were in Main six hours ago, then we’re ahead of them, right?”

Golden shook her head. “The police interviewed everyone in the area. Someone reported hearing a plane taking off, apparently a floatplane, from the lake behind the house about six hours ago.”

“So it’s going to be everyone in the town,” Gant said.

“Finley didn’t pick a ghost town by chance,” Golden threw in.

“What do you have, Doctor?” Gant asked, looking for any piece of information that would give them an advantage going into what was certainly going to be an ambush.

“Horace Finley,” Golden said looking at her computer. “I’ve been running his profile. Somebody should have caught this guy. Somehow his military records disappeared because I really don’t have any data on him before he joined the DEA. No information on whatever childhood trauma formed him. But just the stuff he did on duty should have been a warning. He started State-side in the DEA. Working undercover in Atlanta. He was involved in three shootings in four years. Total of four kills.”

“All kills, no wounded?” Neeley asked.

“All kills,” Golden confirmed, “all his gun. All cleared by the shooting boards. But that’s still a lot.”

“OK, he’s gun happy,” Gant allowed.

Golden continued. “Then he volunteered to go undercover in Colombia, which from my experience in the FBI, might be considered insane behavior on its own.”

“Or he’s just an adrenaline junkie,” Gant said. “I served with guys who constantly volunteered for dangerous tours of duty.”

“Tours of duty in the Army are different from going undercover in Colombia for the DEA,” Golden pointed out. “Finley not only went undercover, he went native. He married a Colombian woman and—“

Gant interrupted. “He should have lost his security clearance right then.”

“The DEA thought it gave him better cover so they gave him a waiver for his clearance,” Golden said. “He had a child with her. Guess where they lived.”

Gant felt a chill settle in his stomach. “The village that was wiped out. That he tried to make the deal for. That he tried to protect.”

“Right,” Golden said. “And then his cover was given away by our friends across from us.”

Gant rubbed his head. Working for the Cellar he had seen betrayal and double-crosses, but nothing like this. “That explains the family angle of the revenge. Finley probably thought that up. Do you think Finley can be reasoned with?” he asked Golden.

“’Reasoned with’?” Golden repeated. “He’s crazy. That’s not the clinical term but it sums it up.”

“Can you talk to him, maybe enough to distract him, confuse him?” Gant pressed. “You’re our negotiator. And you have what he wants.” Gant pointed across at the CIA men and Cranston.

“Yes.”

Gant took of the headset and walked across to Colonel Cranston. “What was your call sign in Colombia?”

“Falcon,” Cranston said.

“And the team’s?”

“Hammer.”

Gant went back to his side of the plane and relayed that information to Golden.

“We’re five minutes out from the link up point,” Bailey announced. Even as he said it, Gant could feel the aircraft bank sharply and being to descend.

Gant stood once more. “Time to get ready.”

Emily hadn’t heard the voices for a while. Indeed, a profound silence had descended. Looking up she could see the faintest of light, indicating dawn was coming. This was her last day, Emily knew. Either her last day of captivity or the last day of her life.

She knew her father was coming for her. She was certain of it. And if he was coming he was bringing a lot of help. That was cause for optimism. The fact that there were more than one of the bad guys and the comment about the charges — not so good.

She stood near the side of the tank, looking up at the small notch. So close, yet out of reach.

She took a deep breath and tried to think. She could not simply stay here and wait for her father. Because that’s what the evil men wanted her to do. She knew they had a plan. So she had to make one up.

Emily took her hand and pressed it against her forehead, pressing hard, as if by that act she could force inspiration to burst forth.

Work with what you have.

She could hear her father’s voice. That’s what he would tell her.

Emily stripped. She realized as she pulled her shirt off that her stomach was taut and flat, something she would have been proud of in any other circumstances. She was sure she’d be asked to dance now. Emily smiled for the first time — she was half-naked, standing in a water tank, held captive by crazy men, and she still thought about her weight.

She looked down at the red marks on her ankle from the shackle. She had defeated that. She could defeat this tank. She finished undressing.

She stared at all her possessions. Shirt. Shoes. Tattered remains of her bra. Skirt. Panties.

Combination. The word came to her.

The Combat Talon hit the dirt runway hard, buckling Gant’s knees. While the plane was still rolling the back ramp cracked open, the lower portion leveling out while the top disappeared up into the darkness of the tail section. Bailey and Neeley had their weapons ready and began ushering the four prisoners toward the back of the plane.

Gant reached out and tapped Neeley’s shoulder, halting her for a moment. He leaned close and had to yell to be heard above the roar of the plane’s engines echoing in through the open tailgate. “I’m counting on you.”

Neeley stared at him for a second, then nodded. “I’m counting on you too, Gant.”

Then she was off the ramp with everyone else as the plane came to a brief stop. As soon as the last person was gone, the plane began moving again, the ramp coming back up. Gant’s last glimpse was of Neeley, Bailey and Golden shepherding the four prisoners toward a waiting Blackhawk helicopter, then the ramp was shut and the plane was roaring down the dirt runway and back into the air.

“Six minutes,” the crew chief yelled, holding up both hands with six fingers extended.

Gant turned to the pallet and grabbed the parachute off the top of it. He began to rig for the jump and the combat that was sure to follow.

As the Blackhawk lifted, Neeley watched the MC-130 take off at the far end of the runway. It was quickly gone into the dark sky and she turned her attention back to the inside of the chopper.

She shouted to be heard above the blades and engines. “You.” She indicated the CIA Director of Operations. “You’re number one.” She pointed at the Chief of Direct Action. “Number Two.” Then Paul Roberts. “Number three.” And finally at Cranston. “Number four. When we touchdown and I yell your number, you get off the helicopter.”

“Fuck you,” the Director of Operations shouted back. “This is bullshit.”

Bailey reached across the cargo bay and slapped the muzzle of his pistol across the man’s face, drawing blood from his nose. “Wrong answer. You get off when your number is called or you die where you’re sitting.”

Neeley turned to Golden and indicated a headset. “Time for you to talk to them.”