by Bob Mayer
“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?”
* * *
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.
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 a
n 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.