by Bob Mayer
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 to
ward 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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The helicopter touched down on the roof of DEA headquarters in Alexandria, Virginia and there was only one person waiting to greet Gant, Neeley and Golden as they exited. A tall man, thin to the point of emaciation, with disheveled gray hair held a hand up to his eyes to block the backwash from the blades as the chopper touched down.
Gant took point, walking up to the man. “Are you up to speed on the situation?”
The man stared at him with dead eyes. “My names Caulkins. Michael Caulkins.”
An image of the girl chained to the tree in Tennessee flashed in front of Gant’s eyes. He paused, not sure what to say. Golden stepped past him. “We’re terribly sorry for your loss.”
Caulkins looked at her with the same dead stare. “Are you?
“Yes.” Golden’s voice got through to Caulkins in some way.
“Why?” he asked.
“I lost a son in a similar way, so I have an idea what you’re feeling.”
Score one for the doc, Gant thought. Caulkins paused, then nodded, indicating for them to follow him. They went in the roof entrance and took an elevator ride down a few floors. Caulkins led them down a carpeted hallway and into a conference room. He shut the door behind them and took the seat at the head of the long table. Gant, Neeley and Golden arrayed themselves around the table.
“What do you want?” Caulkins asked.
Gant pulled out the three personnel folders and slid them across to Caulkins. “Those are the men who killed your daughter.”
Caulkins looked through the folders, then looked up, confused. “They’re soldiers. Why did they do this?”
“They were members of 7th Special Forces Group based in Panama,” Gant said. “They were running missions for Task Force Six.”
Some degree of comprehension came to Caulkins face.
Gant pushed the information, slapping down photos on the desk. “These are the others they’ve killed.” He rattled off their names and the family members. Before he got to the end, Caulkins was shaking his head.
“I know them now. Those three guys are dead. They died in a helicopter crash during exfiltration.”
Gant glanced at Golden, then back at the Drug Enforcement Agent. He pulled out his digital camera, thumbed through and then showed a picture of the remnants of Sergeant Lutz’s body. “One of them is dead now. Killed this morning in Virginia. He had just killed Lewis Foley of the State Department and his wife. Along with two security men.
“The other two are still out there. They’ve got the daughter of Colonel Cranston and we believe she’s in the same predicament that you daughter was in.”
“Jesus Christ,” Caulkins exclaimed. “Why?”
Gant began collecting the photos. “You said you believed they died in a helicopter crash during exfiltration. Who told you that?”
“I was working the ops desk for the Southern District, Panama,” Caulkins said. “The sniper team — those three guys, I only know their names, never met them— was seconded to us by Southern Command, Spec Ops, Task Force Six.”
“Colonel Cranston?” Golden asked.
Caulkins nodded. “Yes.”
“Who was in overall charge?” Gant asked.
“Technically, I was,” Caulkins said.
Neeley spoke for the first time. “’Technically’?”
“We had what we thought was a high level target. The team was to eliminate the target. Then they called in they had someone with a badge on the site. They thought he was DEA, but I hadn’t been briefed on anyone in that AO. So I called it in to our Central Intelligence Agency liaison. He got back with me almost immediately and told me to stop the mission and exfiltrate the team. That’s what I did, except the chopper crashed during exfiltration.”
Gant leaned back in his chair. “Cranston told us the DEA was the agency that ordered the mission to stop and exfiltration.”
Caulkins shrugged. “I relayed the order to him, so he might have assumed I was the originator of it.”
“Who was the—“ Gant began, but he was interrupted when his Satphone vibrated. He snapped it open, listened for a little bit, then shut it without saying a word. He looked at Golden and Neeley. “Emily Cranston wasn’t at the cache site. She’d been moved. The entire area was laced with mines. Two members of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team that went in were killed and three wounded. The site is still not secure.”
“You were right,” Golden said.
Gant ignored the acknowledgement. He stared at Caulkins. “Who was the Agency liaison? Jim Roberts?”
Caulkins nodded. “Yes.”
“And you don’t know who the man with the badge in the village was?”
“No.”
“He wasn’t DEA?” Gant pressed.
“As far I knew, he wasn’t.”
“This is bullshit,” Neeley said.
Everyone turned to her in surprise. Neeley looked at Caulkins. “I’m sorry about your daughter, but everyone has a different story about what happened to these three guys. The only thing everyone agrees on is they thought the guys died in a chopper crash and we know for sure that wasn’t true. Since one of them was killing people this morning and the other two are on the loose.”
“Believe me,” Caulkins said, “I want to know the truth too. I’ve checked as much as I can here and as far as I can tell the DEA did not have an agent in that village. And the decision to abort the mission came from the CIA — I only relayed it.”
“Why did the CIA want you to abort?”
“I don’t really know.”
Gant stood. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us figure out what these guys are up to?”
Caulkins nodded. “There is something — it was only a rumor and I didn’t think much of it at the time, but in light of what I’ve since learned, there might be more to it.”
Gant waited.
“There was talk among my field agents about the CIA running some sort of black op in Colombia. Lots of money exchanging hands.”
“With who?” Gant asked.
“The cartels of course,” Caulkins said.
“Why?” Gant was getting tired of digging into darkness.
“I don’t know and I’m not likely ever to find out,” Caulkins said. “And neither are you.”
“We’ll see about that,” Gant said.
They walked out of the room and headed for the waiting helicopter. Gant turned to Neeley. “After the chopper drops us at Langley it will take you to the airfield. There will be a jet waiting for you to fly you to Alabama and the cache site.”
&n
bsp; “Emily Cranston’s not there,” Neeley said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get a feel for the site. For the person who did this.”
Neeley reluctantly nodded.
* * *
The first conscious thought Emily Cranston had was that she was no longer moving. The next was that she was lying on something hard. She was on her back and she realized that she no longer had the blindfold on.
Still, she didn’t open her eyes. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see where she was now. The air was different. Warmer. Drier.
She could sense she was not in an enclosed space. At least not as enclosed as the van had been.
And the damn shackle was still on her ankle.
Emily opened her eyes and blinked. A clear blue sky was above her, framed by a perfect circle of wood. Emily blinked once more, turning her head. She was surrounded by a wooden wall, perfectly round, eight feet high. She was chained to a bolt set in the very center of the wood floor, the open space about twelve feet in diameter.
Not as tight as the van but still enclosed. So much for her senses.
“What the fuck?” Emily muttered as she struggled to get to her feet.
The wood was old. Bleached by the sun. There was a trace of sand on the floor.
Emily stomped her foot and was surprised to hear an echo. The floor wasn’t solid. She got on her knees and wrapped her hand around the metal bolt that the chain to her shackles was locked to. She pulled as hard as she could but it didn’t budge in the slightest.
She continued to try for several minutes until she was panting. Finally she gave up for the moment and sat down, running a swollen tongue over her parched lips. It had been over two days since she’d had anything to drink other than the scant drops of dew. She was grateful that she had been drinking water in the night-club rather than alcohol.
Thinking that made her realize how long ago that seemed. To be part of the real world, the normal world. Where her largest concern had been not getting asked to dance. When she had worried about the extra weight that was now coming off faster than any diet in the latest fad. Emily would have laughed if her parched throat would have allowed — now she was grateful she’d had that weight on.