He watched the workman. His clothing said he was a soldier, but the material of the uniform look faded and inconsistent with modern Russian field uniforms. The camo pattern looked bleached and the fur collar indicated it was a winter uniform from the days of the Soviet Union.
The man showed himself to be a lousy craftsman. Using a hammer and a large Phillips-head screwdriver, the worker created a half-inch hole in the wall, three feet from the door. He then hung the box on brackets put in place with screws. A wire hung from the box and the worker fished it through the rough hole he created a few minutes before.
It took twenty minutes to do the job. Five minutes after that, the man disappeared with the tool kit and ladder.
Despite the growing pain in his neck, Masters studied the box. A security camera? No. A speaker. An old-fashioned speaker in a plywood box with fabric covering the hole in the face.
He would have preferred the security camera. He could only think of one reason to go through so much trouble. He prayed he was wrong.
He wasn't.
A voice drifted over the speaker. "Sit him down." Egonov's voice.
"What . . . what are you doing?" Another familiar voice. The unit's communications man, Chaddick, was the newest member of the team.
Egonov's voice: "You have had many opportunities to cooperate. This is your last opportunity. Why have you and the others invaded my territory? Why are you here?"
"My name is Staff Sergeant Dave Chaddick—"
The sound of a brutal slap followed by a howl of pain drifted from the speaker. "My patience is gone, Staff Sergeant."
"My nime isth Divvid Cheddick."
Something was wrong with Chaddick's speech. A broken jaw? Masters's heart deflated like a balloon. Chaddick was a good man, the joker of the group. Masters never saw him down, never heard a complaint. He was a family man with a pregnant wife and two young children. Masters had been around enough to know that even if they walked out of this place safe, Chaddick would never be the same.
"Take off his boots." Egonov's voice betrayed no emotion. Masters had no idea how many other men were in the room with Egonov, but he could hear boots shuffling.
"What are you doing?" Terror filled the man's voice.
"I gave you opportunity," Egonov said.
Masters heard the squeak of a door. It was close. All the action was taking place in a room just a few feet away.
"Just his feet."
He heard fluid splashing.
"No. Don't."
"What you must understand, Staff Sergeant, is that I can get my information from one of the others."
Masters caught a sniff of something familiar, something pungent.
"No. For the love of God. Please don't."
"I do not believe in God. I certainly do not believe in the love of God." There was a pause.
"Oh, God!"
"Light it."
Masters continued to smell gasoline. Then he smelled burning flesh.
The screaming minced his soul.
J. J. PRAYED. HE often prayed. Not just before or during missions, but he prayed on his day off; in country, out of country; in uniform or out; alone or with his wife. Prayer was second nature for him. Some soldiers became believers in foxholes or the urban streets of distant cities; some found faith only after bullets streaked overhead or a land mine exploded nearby. Not J. J. He attended church since he was a child. It was a family thing. His twin brother was an ardent believer and now served the Army as a chaplain. It hadn't been his first choice, but after washing out of Ranger training, Paul Bartley decided he needed something more. It was then he found his real calling. He finished college and attended seminary, returning to duty as an officer.
There were many things to pray for. J. J. prayed for Tess. How was she handling his absence? They married the previous year. Being a soldier's wife was not for the easily faint. Many marriages hit the rocks with the long, unexpected absences. Often the for-better-or-for-worse vows went by the wayside when a soldier, hardened, embittered by conflict and war, returned changed, withdrawn, even reclusive.
J. J. depended on his faith to keep him honest, brave, and unchanged. He saw enough abrasive horrors to grind any man's brain to powder. It was one of the things he prayed about as the FedEx truck moved along a pothole-laced road. His team leader seemed edgy, out of sorts. The assistant team leader not long ago put the muzzle of his weapon to Lev's head.
Were they losing their grips? It had happened to other teams. Although rare, history recorded a team of soldiers doing the unthinkable. It happened in Iraq, Vietnam, and other foreign fields.
J. J. shook off the idea. It was stupid. Boss and Shaq were solid-gold soldiers with intellects and wills forged in the furnace of life-threatening danger. J. J. would trust either man with his life—not just his life, but Tess's too. They proved their willingness to die for others.
So why the edginess? They were short on sleep and were called into action on short notice. They were undertaking a mission unprecedented in Army history. There was no time for specialized training. In many ways, they were out of their element. But then again, it would be for any Spec Ops team. Satellite recovery was different than anything they'd ever done.
J. J. looked at the small Bible in his hand.
"I know that look." Moyer had only one eye open.
"What look is that?"
The team leader straightened and fixed his gaze on J. J. It made him feel uncomfortable. "The one that says you have something on your mind."
"Sorry, Boss. It's the only face I have."
Rich chortled. "That is one piece of miserable luck, Colt."
"I get by."
"So, you got anything in that book for us, Colt?" Moyer closed his eyes again. He looked weary. Not just physically, but emotionally.
"There's always something good in here, Boss."
"Let's hear it."
It was the first time Moyer had made such a request.
"Okay. This is a New Testament, but I've been thinking about something David wrote in the Psalms." J. J. stared at the floor, his mind drawing forward a passage he had been memorizing. "It's from Psalm 18 and goes like this:
As for God, His way is blameless;
The word of the LORD is tried;
He is a shield to all who take refuge in Him.
For who is God, but the LORD?
And who is a rock, except our God,
The God who girds me with strength
And makes my way blameless?
He makes my feet like hinds' feet,
And sets me upon my high places.
He trains my hands for battle,
So that my arms can bend a bow of bronze.
You have also given me the shield of Your salvation,
And Your right hand upholds me;
And Your gentleness makes me great.
You enlarge my steps under me,
And my feet have not slipped.
The group was quiet for a moment, a stillness broken by Lev. "Amen."
"Nice words," Pete said.
"So why is that on your mind, Colt?" Moyer studied his hands as if he had spilt something on them.
"I just like to remind myself we don't do what we do alone. King David was a warrior. He didn't complain about war, but he did depend on God's guidance. We're not exempt from trouble, just empowered in it. There's an old saying: 'God doesn't lead us to a desert; He joins us in the desert.'"
"I hope you're right, Colt," Moyer said. "I hope you're right."
CHAPTER 18
THE MD-90 AIRLINER DUBBED Qīpiàn—"Deception"—took to the air at a steep angle, its aft-mounted International Aero V2500 engines humming through the hull and filling Peng's ears. It wasn't the sound of the engines that occupied his mind; it was what waited under the tarpaulin shrouds behind the seating area.
Shortly before liftoff, Peng learned he made a faulty assumption: The man in the white shirt and dark pants was not the pilot. He was Shang Xiao Jiang Tao. Colonel Jiang's sm
ile disappeared shortly after the door to the aircraft was secured. He had hard almond eyes and a reputation to match. Although Peng had never met the man, never served under his direct command, he knew of the colonel's exploits. In the PLA, he was a hero, an example to all soldiers.
The disguise should not have surprised Peng. After all, he and his team were dressed like vacationing fishermen. The items in their duffle bags would give them away immediately, but no one would get close enough to peek in the canvas bags.
Once the cargo craft reached altitude and leveled off, its nose pointed toward the east, Jiang rose from his seat and faced Peng and his men.
"We have only a short time and there is much I need to tell you." He looked at Peng through those dark eyes. Did the man ever blink? "Know this, Captain, the mission is still yours. I am here to give you information we do not want transmitted over open lines, even encrypted lines. Understood?"
"Yes, Colonel." Peng kept eye contact. He was being judged and he wanted his superior to know he did not intimidate easily.
"You have seen what is under the tarpaulins. Are you familiar with them, Captain?"
"I have only seen them, Colonel. I have not trained with them, nor have my men."
"I will brief you. You will have, as they say in the West, on-the-job training. I will teach you what you need to know; the rest you will learn on the way down."
"On the way down" sounded ominous and theatrical. Peng had met men like Jiang before: They thrived on danger and enjoyed seeing fear in the eyes of others. Peng wouldn't give him the pleasure. "Yes, sir."
Jiang looked at his watch. "Let us not waste these precious moments. We have forty minutes before our left engine goes out and we lose hydraulics."
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand."
Jiang smiled and the sight of it chilled Peng.
STACY MOYER COULDN'T SIT. Sitting was the same as doing nothing and she had to do something, anything. She fought the urge to unload the dishwasher. The urge was natural and unnatural. Her mind wanted to focus on the mundane, the unimportant, the routine, as if pretending nothing bad has happened would mean nothing bad had happened. She couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, she paced. A female police detective sat on her sofa, fresh out of questions to ask. Stacy was weary of hearing, "We will do everything we can."
What difference did that make? Every second that passed meant finding Gina grew more difficult. A car traveling at sixty miles per hour put a mile under its wheels every minute: five minutes equaled five miles; ten minutes meant ten miles. It had been three hours. If someone took Gina and put her in a car, then they could be one hundred and eighty miles away, and with every mile, the search area grew exponentially.
"Mom, we need to talk."
"I don't want to talk; I want to find Gina." Stacy put an edge to the words.
"So do I, Mom."
"But we're not doing anything. The police aren't doing anything—"
Rob approached and took her in his arms. She tried to push him away. She didn't want to be comforted. Everything was wrong; every word irritating; every motion infuriating. She loved Rob down to the marrow of her bones, but his touch seemed toxic.
She tried to push him away again, but he'd have none of it. His arms wrapped around her like a straitjacket. She could feel the muscles in his thin arms tighten into a gentle squeeze. Again she tried to pull away but Rob held on.
Unreasoning resistance shattered like chalk in a vise. She shuddered. She convulsed. She sobbed, laying her head against her son's shoulder. In the last few hours, she had watched him go from often self-absorbed teenager to a man.
She let him hold her as tears and emotions poured from her. Water filled her eyes, mucus filled her nose, despair filled her heart.
"I made a call." Rob spoke softly, just a few decibels above a whisper.
"A call?" Her voice sounded raspy and muted against his shoulder.
"Yeah. I called Chaplain Bartley."
"He can't help. I don't need a sermon. I don't want a sermon."
"Mom, stop it. You know he's not coming over to preach."
"He's coming over? Tonight? Now?"
"Yeah. I got him out of bed. That's what he gets for giving me his cell number."
"You shouldn't have done that, Rob." Calmer now, she eased away from her son. "There's nothing he can do at this hour."
"He can be here. He's good at listening. He listened to me when I needed it, when I was being such a pain."
"But—"
"Mom, listen to me. You need to think. This may have something to do with Dad."
"Dad?" Detective Angie Wells, a middle-aged redhead, stood from the sofa. "I thought you said your father is out of town."
"We didn't, Detective." Rob offered nothing more.
Angie eyed them. "Could he have taken her?"
"No." Stacy drew a hand across her cheeks. "Not possible."
"You know if he did and you're protecting him—"
"We're not protecting him." Rob's tone revealed his impatience. "You don't understand."
"Then you'd better explain it to me."
"I can't."
A knock came at the door.
"That can't be Chaplain Bartley. I just called a few minutes ago." Rob moved across the living room and peered through the door's peephole. "It's Sergeant Crivello." Rob opened the door.
"I don't have any information," Crivello said quickly. "I'm sorry, but no word yet." He entered the house and gave a nod to Detective Wells. Rob closed the door behind him. "I've contacted Highway Patrol. The APB will alert all the other law enforcement agencies in the area. I've also made a run by the local hospitals."
"What about the canvassing?" Detective Wells said.
"We woke up a lot of people, but no one heard or saw anything." Crivello shook his head. "I'm sorry, but we're coming up zeros. I take it she hasn't called home."
"No." Stacy had to force the word out.
"Nothing on this end, Sergeant." Wells turned to Rob and Stacy. "They were just about to tell me about Gina's dad."
"He's not out of town?" Crivello sounded suspicious.
"We told you he was." Stacy bit her lip. "Sorry. I'm not at my best."
"That's understandable." Crivello look puzzled. "What's this about your husband, ma'am?"
Wells answered for her. "They say they can't talk about it."
Crivello's brow furrowed. "Why can't you . . . ?" The man looked around the living room as if secrets were written on the walls. His eyes fell to the coffee table. A stack of magazines rested on the surface.
Stacy followed his gaze to two interior design magazines, a periodical for gun lovers, and a news magazine.
"Is your husband in the military, ma'am?"
"He's a businessman," Rob said.
Crivello's smile was sympathetic. "You've been saying that for a lot of years haven't you, young man?"
Rob didn't answer.
"Look, we're not here to blow anyone's cover. All the detective and I want is to find your daughter."
Stacy looked into Rob's eyes and saw agreement. "Yes, my husband is military. How did you know?"
"Spent a few years in the Army. That's how I landed in South Carolina. I'm originally from central California. That and seeing a gun magazine and a conservative news magazine gave credence to my suspicion. That and having Fort Jackson so close. I'm going to make another guess. He's part of the Spec Ops group out of Jackson. Not many people know about that."
"I know I don't." Wells seemed put out.
"You're not supposed to know about it, Detective. It's a bit of a secret."
"But you know."
Crivello nodded. "Only because I had a couple of buddies who did something for the group. I still don't know what they did. They don't tell and I don't ask." He turned back to Stacy. "He's on mission now?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any reason to believe your daughter's disappearance might be related?"
"I don't see how. We never know when or wh
ere he's going. Sometimes all we get is a phone call. Gina certainly doesn't know any more than we do."
"What's your husband's name?"
"Eric. Sergeant Major Eric Moyer." Stacy swallowed hard. It hadn't occurred to her that Eric's mission and her daughter's disappearance might be connected.
Crivello looked at Wells and waited.
"What?"
"I don't want to interfere with your investigation, but you might want to ask who the sergeant major's commanding officer is."
"Because . . ."
"Because he needs to know about the girl's disappearance; because he may have a way of informing Mr. Moyer; and because he may know something useful."
Detective Wells seemed embarrassed.
"Colonel MacGregor," Stacy said.
"Does he have a first name?" Wells pulled a smartphone from the pocket of her pantsuit.
Stacy shrugged. "I don't know. Eric just calls him Colonel Mac or Mac. I've never heard a first name."
"I don't suppose you have a number?"
"No, sorry."
Rob said, "Chaplain Bartley might have it. He should be here soon."
"Then we'll wait on him." Wells sat on the sofa again.
Could there be a connection between Eric's mission and Gina's disappearance? The thought terrified her. If it were true, then Gina was in the hands of some very dangerous people.
THE PHONE FOR FORMER Sergeant First Class Jerry "Data" Zinsser, now special agent for USACIC—United States Army Criminal Investigation Command—rang, launching Zinsser a foot above the bed.
He let it ring twice more before answering, mostly to allow himself a moment to slow his heart. He snapped up the receiver and glanced at the clock: a few minutes after two in the morning.
He put the hand piece to his ear. "Someone had better be dead."
"I hope not."
There was no humor in the comeback. It took a moment for him to recognize the voice. "Paul?"
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