by Bob Mayer
“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.
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 tri
ed 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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emily ducked as the shoe almost hit her in the face as it fell back toward her. It was kept from hitting the floor of the tank by the sleeve of her shirt, which was tied through the strap. The other sleeve was in Emily’s hand.
That had been her fifth attempt and she was surprised how tired her arm was from throwing and how hard she was breathing simply from tossing a shoe in the air. She took a few deep breaths, then looked up at the notch once more. She carefully tossed the shoe.
It bounced off the plank and back toward her once more.
“Fuck,” Emily hissed.
Angry, she flung the shoe back at the notch, the sleeve in her hand ripping free. Emily froze as the shoe went over the top of the tank, her eyes focused on the shirt, fearing to see it disappear with the shoe.
But the shirt hung down the inside, the sleeve she’d lost within reach. She took it in her hand. The shirt was about three inches to the right of the notch. She tugged slightly, pulling to her left. The material moved an inch. She tugged again. Another inch. One more time and the shirt slid into the notch.
Holding her breath, Emily slowly pulled on the sleeve. The shirt slid smoothly through the notch until it suddenly came to a halt. Emily knew the shoe was just on the other side now. She allowed herself several shallow breaths.
Emily wrapped the sleeve around both hands and slowly shifted her weight from her feet to her arms. The shirt/shoe combination held as she put more and more weight on it. She felt the strain build in her arms as she held tighter and tighter. Hands shaking, she bent her knees and lifted her feet an inch off the ground.
It held.
She put her feet back on the ground and released the pressure as she caught her breath.
Now the question was: could she make the climb?
* * *
“Hammer, this is Falcon.” Golden released the transmit button and Neeley leaned close to her.
“Say, ‘over’, when you’re done sending.”
Golden belatedly hit the transmit and barked: “Over.”
All Neeley could hear was static on the FM channel that Bailey had been given by Finley. “Again,” she said to Golden.
“Hammer, this is Falcon. Over.”
The static was broken. “You’re not Falcon, but that’s all right, because I’m not Hammer.” The voice was calm and matter-of-fact.
“Put Hammer on please,” Golden said. “Over.”
“Put Falcon on. I assume he’s coming to get his little girl. After all, he’s killed for her already.”
“You don’t need to talk to Colonel Cranston,” Golden said. “You just need to see him. And the others. Over.”
“Who are you?” Finley asked.
Neeley nodded. Golden was drawing him in, engaging him. The co-pilot in the front of the chopper held up five fingers, indicating they were five minutes from the town.
&nb
sp; “My name is Doctor Golden. I’m a psychiatrist. Over.”
There was a weird sound in reply and Neeley realized Finley was laughing. “You going to give me therapy, doc?”
“We want proof of life,” Golden demanded. “Put Emily on. Over.”
“Emily’s not next to me either,” Finley said. “We bought off on your proof of death at Fort Meade. Took your word for it. So take our word she’s alive.”
“Is she in the area?” Golden pressed.
“Oh, she’s around,” Finley said with a laugh.
The co-pilot held up four fingers. Neeley unbuckled her seat belt and grabbed a harness off a hook. She buckled it on as Golden continued to engage Finley in conversation. Neeley then tethered the harness to a bolt in the floor of the cargo bay. She opened up a long case and pulled out her sniper rifle. Then she slid over to the left side of the chopper and slid the door open, taking a seat on the floor, legs dangling. She tightened the tether to make sure the limit of her movement would keep her from sliding off, and then looked about the wind from the blades above her buffeting her skin.
The sun was rising in the east. It was the cusp between night and day. She switched frequencies tuning out Golden’s psychobabble with Finley and tuning in the tactical frequency they’d agreed on.
“Gant?” She asked. “You there?”
* * *
Gant was standing at the edge of the open ramp, being whipped by the air swirling in the cargo bay. “I hear you,” he replied. “Wait one. Over.”
The light in the tail of the plane turned green and Gant stepped off the ramp, freefalling at ten thousand feet above the ground. He spread his arms and legs, arcing his back, and stabilized. He waited a few seconds, then grabbed the rip cord and opened his chute.
The opening shock pulled him upright and took his breath away. He reached up and grabbed the toggles, gaining control of the canopy. He checked the data board on top of his reserve chute and checked his altitude and location.
“Neeley? I’m airborne now. Eight thousand feet AGL and on track for the town.”