“It’s a mass grave,” Riley said, scowling. “I saw one in Serbia with Sam. Tanks were coming and troops didn’t hang around to bury the dead.”
“But it should smell far worse. It’s covered in lime, intentional.”
The Marines drew near. “God, that’s rank.”
She shined the chem-light. “Look how small.” She lifted her gaze. “They’re children.”
Riley coughed against the stench, knelt. “They’ve been gnawed on.”
“Don’t say that,” she whispered. “Eaten?”
He cracked a second chem-lite and tossed it in the pile. Safia reared back, aimed her weapon, her gaze scanning. Limbs and skulls protruded, the layers of lime bright in the night vision.
“Oh I’m going to enjoy seeing this guy bite it,” she said and frowned when Riley cracked another chem-lite, and bent to look. Safia turned her face away, but the tiny decayed hand stayed in her mind. She watched the terrain instead.
“Disgusting, but Bridget was right.” He tapped her, then with the chem-lite, he pointed to the ground. She really didn’t want to look closer, but did, squatting. She’d grown accustomed to the odor. The hand was small, maybe a two year old, but the nails were exceptionally long. With a gloved hand, she turned it over to see the back.
She looked at him sharply. “That’s the strangest thing I’ve seen.” The back was covered with fine dark hair. “Your brother-in-law said they found animals with human remains.” She waved at it, then wished she hadn’t. “Is this the source?”
“Can’t deal with that now, but it looks like it.” He inclined his head and she came to him, leaving the horror behind. Nearly fifty yards in, they found the fence.
“Satellite picked up enough to get that it runs through the jungle but only on this side.” Thibaut kept them contained, she thought, glancing back.
Riley was at the fence, searching, then finding whatever he needed. He pulled out some electrical gadget and attached wires and clips at the top and bottom. Safia scanned her surroundings, the night vision picking up movement. She aimed right, lowering to one knee. Then a feeling she never ignored passed over her spine. “We’re not alone.”
“They’ve been following since the graves. They’re in the trees.”
Safia kept her head straight but behind the goggles, her gaze swept up. The night vision outlined a small figure in the tree, crouched. Dark, a lot of hair or mud, she thought, but could see little else.
“Dragon Three, you see anything unusual?”
“Yeah, kiddy campsites.”
Max brushed at the ashes, and glanced around the tent. Of sorts. It was constructed from dead leaves and branches, strips of a bangi tree used for rope. Sam knelt near, watching his back. Max pushed up his NVG’S and cracked the chem-lite, sweeping it slowly.
Sam leaned in to see. “It’s like a fort. A kid’s fort.”
“Not wild animals, or they wouldn’t have beds and utensils,” a Marine said, pointing. The lean-to was filled with scraps that probably washed up on shore, but the Marine was correct, Max made out a spoon shape and a few daggers. Then he realized they were made from bones. Jesus.
“Thermal says there are people housed all over here, most in the two story buildings at the northeastern end.”
“Commune life.”
“Yeah, but what kind of commune?” a Marine said.
“Sick and depraved so far,” Max said. “Move out. Let’s get this done.”
The teams advanced. They had planes to disable, and guards to subdue. The fence perimeter surrounded the island except for the northern corner, the largest building on the tip. Thibaut’s house probably, but the weird kids were here. South. The nutty professor didn’t know his projects had escaped, Max thought as the team halted near the fence line, throwing rope into the trees, and climbing. When Riley warned them of the break in the electrical fence, he put up a fist. Although they could hear it as well, he counted off his fingers, and heard Riley say, “Take the hill.”
Dragon Two and Three went over the fence, and dropped to the ground like apples from trees. He glanced back in time to see the static course through the metal.
“Divide and conquer,” Max said, and they advanced rapidly to the jet hangar and guards’ post beyond.
Barasa glared at the door when he heard a knock but didn’t get up from the stuffed chair. “Does no one sleep on this island?” He wanted to be alone, but the caller entered, and Barasa kept his glare on Thibaut as he crossed the living room.
He tisked at Barasa’s wound. “A woman scorned,” he murmured. “Dangerous, wouldn’t you say?”
“I want my weapon.” The soft click of a bullet chambering echoed between them. Thibaut didn’t react a fraction.
“I’ve come to deliver it.” He reached inside his jacket. Barasa lifted the gun.
“Careful. Professor.”
He withdrew the shiny black web phone, already turned on. “You have only to call this number.” He tapped the screen and brought up the string of digits. “The detonation message is ready.”
Barasa frowned and gestured with the gun for him to leave it on the coffee table. When he did, Barasa pushed out of the chair and stood on shaky legs. Liquor and painkillers did little to ease the throbbing in his hand. He still felt the finger though it was no more than a stump now. His anger swelled and he pointed the barrel at Thibaut’s forehead.
“Release my crew and jet. I’m leaving.”
Thibaut nodded, an odd smile on his thin lips. “It will be done within the hour, and I suggest you be quick.” He looked meaningfully at his bloody hand. “Before she decides to cut off something vital.”
Thibaut glanced around as if looking for something, then turned away and left. Cale sank into the chair and laid the gun on his thigh, then reached for the bottle of painkillers. He gave up, his arm pulsing now. He needed better drugs and shouted for Rahjan.
No one answered.
Riley went over the fence, instantly looking at Safia as she vaulted and dropped a few yards away. She didn’t move for a second or two, and the fence rearmed. She straightened and rushed to his side.
“No going back,” she said softly.
He gripped her hand once, then signaled. The team advanced.
Ahead, a single building stood apart. Several yards to its left a pair of two story structures glowed with light, and satellite said there was a pool and a playground. The dorms housing his freaks, Riley thought as they spread out and moved. He felt rather than saw Safia beside him and mentally slapped himself to keep focused as she rushed ahead, taking position for the next advance.
“There’s no one out there,” she said. “No movement at all. But lights are glowing.”
“Surveillance says they never go off,” a Marine said before they rushed to the single building, sliding along the side to look into the windows.
Then the sky opened up and rain fell in heavy gray sheets. “Well this spoils the party,” Safia said, drops peppering her face. Lightning flickered overhead, the storm boiling.
Riley stopped at the entrance, Marines spread out, covering another. No lights, no movement. Riley pointed to his eyes, the window. What do you see? The Marine made a cutting motion across his throat. Negative, nothing. They entered the building, methodically clearing the hall, each room. The Recon on his wrist showed negative thermals except for a small fridge. The building was half home, half lab, he realized, glancing at a single bed, recently slept in. There were glass tabletops, lit from below. Only one was on, the counter barren. At the end, he spotted a glass cabinet. Empty.
“It was here,” he said when she moved up beside him. His hand-held sensor was off the charts with detecting the RZ components.
“This is where that little brat built them.” She pointed her weapon down and flipped on the laser light. It illuminated empty web phone boxes stacked under a worktable. “Oh hell, there’s at least a dozen empty cases.”
Riley mentally counted the stops Odette had made and the
ones that had already gone off. “That means about six are out there. Step it up.” They cleared the next room meant for storage, then moved out the rear and into the dark. The team spread out to the next location, but Safia tapped Riley, and they knelt behind thick bushes and pushed up the goggles.
“This is where we part for a bit.”
“Oh hell no.”
“Ellie has three isolated thermals. That way.” She pointed back over her shoulder, then showed him on the Recon’s screen. “There’s a stream that cuts the island in half on the windward side.”
Riley remembered the brook from the topography. “And what do you think you’re going to do alone?” But he knew.
“Find Bridget.”
He shook his head. “Not without me.”
“Riley, why do you think I’m pared down?”
Her gear was minimal, and aside from that skin suit, she had no armor protection. “You planned this.”
She nodded. “I can move faster alone, you know that. You have to get the canister. When hell breaks loose, Bridget will be a target.”
She was right, but he was in command, responsible for accomplishing the mission, and that included his sister. Safia laid her hands on his chest and held his gaze.
“I’ll find her. We have thermals to follow. The only other hot spot near there is the dish and D-3 has that covered.” When he simply stared, she said, “Tell me I’m wrong.” He didn’t speak. “It has to be this way. She can’t die because of this man.”
Riley sighed hard, cupped the back of her head, pressed his forehead to hers. “Thank you. You’re the only person I trust to do this.”
She gripped his arm. “The thermal is isolated and still. Another is moving, but they are not far from each other. It must be her.” Though from the look of the topography, Bridget was buried under rock, but Safia didn’t mention that.
Riley nodded. “I know my sister. Tell her Travis and her crew are unharmed first. She’ll be bonkers.” He withdrew a knife, flipped it handle out. “In case you want some payback.” It was the Ghurka soldier’s, her torturer. This time, she knew his face. She’d studied the photo she’d taken from the docks. She stored the knife in her boot, then moved away, her weapon forward. She glanced back, then suddenly rushed close to kiss him. “I love you madly,” she said with feeling, and heard his quick inhale. “Do not get shot.”
“You either.” He leaned in and she felt his breath on her cheek. “We’re due a future, you and me.”
She wanted that, badly, yet threatened it as she turned away from him—and any chance of backup.
Twenty-one
Deep Six
When the Marine’s video feed showed the graves, the bodies, there was a collective gasp inside the Op Center. Hank was equally disgusted. None of it was getting off that island, he thought, then from behind the long console, he said, “Get as much footage as they can.”
Beckham nodded, then spoke into the headset like a defensive football coach, moving between techs and analysts to stay on the ball with the Ops center in Guam. The video play started once the teams had hit the ground. One Marine on each team had the feed. When Troy split off, Jansen cursed.
Beckham twisted a glance. “You knew she’d go after the sister, right?”
“I expected Donovan to break from mission protocol.” His shoulders lifted, fell. “He’s a maverick, and it’s his sister.”
“I knew Troy wouldn’t wait.”
Jansen arched a brow. “You’re that familiar?”
“No, sir, I’m not,” Beckham said and Hank detected a blush in the big man. “She shot me down many times.” He snorted a laugh, watching the feed, the satellite showing the movement on the ground. “People mean more to her than the Intel.”
In his experience, it wasn’t the norm with the CIA. “How did she last this long?”
Beckham covered the padded mic curved in front of his mouth. “For just that reason, I guess.”
“Let’s hope she’s right this time.”
Hank watched the screen and the link to Dragon One, and Chambliss in Guam. “Keep Intel flowing, our people are still on the ground.” He glanced at the clock, then the weather map. The window was closing, and his final orders depended on their quick execution and departure. Gerardo was overseeing their retrieval, but with the storm stirring up, it might be a rescue.
Safia hurried through the jungle, the ground more stable. The image of the bodies and their abuse blossomed and it pushed her faster. If they could do that to children, then what would they do to Bridget? She sprinted through the forest, slowing and tipping her head when she heard the sound of rushing water. The stream. The island was small hills and craggy valleys on this side, a natural volcano, Bridget’s husband had said. She pushed at the fronds, her pace slower and heightening her awareness. She paused on the edge of a clearing, freezing in her tracks. Familiarity magnified through her and with it, an insurmountable rage.
Oh, no it isn’t, she thought and moved quickly to the right, and saw the small waterfall. Recognition dawned. Indonesia, my ass, she thought, but when Kincade and Price had air lifted her out of the jungle, it was in a jet with blackened windows. Her gaze flicked, night vision goggles defining in iridescent green, and she spotted an opening east of her position. She glanced at her Recon. Thermal reading showed three bodies nearby, none of them together. She had to assume they were combatants and not anything electrical. There wasn’t any power running in this direction. Most of it was centralized near the buildings. Gas generators, she thought and moved in a crouch a few feet, then stopped to check her surroundings and continue.
She was at the south end of the small island, the area blocked by jungle and cloistered with decaying trees and vegetation. The geography showed a cliff on this side. Each step brought up the moldy smell and she followed it, spotting a shape that had too many straight lines to be natural. She headed toward it.
Jason paced his bungalow, watching his bare feet kick out almost in time to the thunder pushing closer. He wanted off, now. The manipulation around him was tough to fight, and his options were few and at the mercy of Thibaut, Odette and Barasa. He’d no reason not to believe Odette would keep her promise. She was the only one who had, really. He considered offering money to Barasa’s pilot and crew, out-paying the arm’s dealer. Loyalty wasn’t a commodity Barasa had in spades.
Thunder crashed loudly. Seconds later the flash of lightning lit the rooms and silhouetted four figures and the weapons pointed at him. Laser sights dotted red targets on his chest and head.
Shit. Slowly, he lifted his hands. From behind, someone grabbed his shirt, pushed him to the floor face down. A knee in the back, his hands yanked behind, then slip ties locked on his wrists. The commando searched him, then yanked him to his knees and pressed a gun barrel to the back of his neck while the others moved methodically through the rooms. Lightning blinked like camera flashes. The tallest came forward and Jason looked up. He recognized the gear and fear shot up his spine. The U.S. had found him.
The man stared back through night vision goggles, then suddenly pulled them off. “Where is the canister, Vaghn?”
Jason blinked. “Oh holy shit! Donovan?”
Riley dragged him to his feet. “Where is the RZ10?”
Jason recognized the murderous look. “He took it back. Thibaut took it back. I swear!”
He released him in the direction of a Marine. “Gag him.”
Jason swallowed, shock rippling through him as Donovan hand-searched the cottage. Alive? How? His shoulders sank and he didn’t fight the Marine when he gagged him. Not that he could. Running wasn’t an option with high-powered machine guns trained on him. It was over. He was looking at a firing squad if Donovan had his way.
A Marine led him to the rear of the building, a solid grip on his arm as he pushed him ahead. Donovan gave orders he couldn’t hear, but after several yards, the Marine forced him to the ground near a fat tree and secured him. Then they took off, leaving him in the
rain. Wind bent branches, trees swayed, and he let his head fall forward. Well, he’d at least have the money for lawyers. He resigned himself that Donovan was in control, but money would move mountains, and he’d get off the island. They were obligated to take him along. He stared at the darkness. Twigs and leaves stirred in gray sheets of rain. All the lights were out. Under the tree, he was a little dryer at least. A flash of something slick near the fence made him strain to see more. The sky boiled and lighting struck, rippling through the metal fence and across the ground. Jason watched helplessly as the charge divided and climbed up tree roots, splitting trunks. He tried to move away. With his back to the tree, it was impossible, and when the blue charge reached him, he watched it channel into his wet feet, then up his legs, exploding his organs under his skin.
Bridget worked the ropes with her teeth, then stopped, pretending to sleep when she heard a noise. Two days in this filth was enough. She’d been drugged and hooded since the speedboat and she knew her husband was going barking mad. If they hadn’t killed him, she thought, her throat tightening. She focused on the ropes again, any reason not to worry over her fate, then suddenly realized her hands should be tied behind her back. She’d seen American TV shows. He wanted her to escape. Well, why? she thought sitting back. She’d already tried it once and got tossed in this place. Her eyesight was accustomed to the dark enough to make out the shape of a doorway and bars. Somewhere beyond was a green glow but tied up, she couldn’t see the source. She felt the wet rope give and struggled harder, her heart pounding as the knots slipped free. She stood, wrapping the ends around each fist and wanted to kiss her brother for teaching her this.
Riley will come. She didn’t doubt it for a moment. She moved to the cell door, her boots slopping in water, and pushed. It gave a fraction, making a squishy noise. The scents were Malaysian, maybe west Truk Islands. She’d no notion why they took her and killed that poor police officer. The finds on the islands had yet to be researched and though the bones were young people, they’d been on the island for quite some time. She patted her pockets, but they’d taken everything and really, given the sort, she was lucky to be dressed. Her sunscreen tube dangled from her belt loop. She pulled it off, and removed the tube from the hook. She strained to bend the hard metal. She could pick the lock. Not that she knew how, but this was such a special time. Straightening the hook as best she could, she knelt on the wet stone and worked to open the lock and not make any noise. The tumblers clicked, and she covered her mouth before her surprise went verbal. She pushed the door and it swung without a sound. She scowled at the hinge, noticing it was the only spot not covered in mold. Atrocious place, she thought, then heard a noise. She backed into a corner, listening and couldn’t tell the direction. She tipped her head and waited for it again.
Fight Fire With Fire. Page 35