by Bob Mayer
“Auxiliary Two-Six-Four here. I’ve got a female KIA. Nineteen. Name Caliegh Roberts. No sexual assault. No known associates. The name is on the list. Drowned in a foot of water. No on sight evidence. Very clean kill. Very brutal.”
He cut the connection, put the phone back in the pocket and pulled the next paper out to continue reading while he waited. He’d spent twenty-five years working in the CIA. Less than two months after his retirement, a man had shown up at his house and offered him the job of being in the Auxiliary. Boredom had about driven the old man crazy within two months and he readily accepted.
The Satphone buzzed and he answered. “Yes?”
The voice on the other end was female, but not feminine. All business. “Was there anything left at the murder site? Specifically a piece of paper?”
“No one reported it. I’ll check on it.”
“Do that.”
The man called his contacts in the sheriff’s department and then the State Police. All reported back negative about any paper being left at the murder scene. He dialed his contact number and reported that.
Satisfied he had done his duty, he stood up, closing his folding chair and turned to head back to his car. But then he paused and looked once more down the beach in the direction the murder had taken place and felt a chill crawl over his skin despite the bright sun. A predator had been in the area during the night — a trained predator, the worst kind of all.
* * *
Golden walked into Sam Cranston’s familiar apartment just off post of Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Every piece of furniture was the same. Same masculine decorating, but the room felt different. Maybe it was the crowd of dark-suited men who she presumed were agents, or the stink of cigarette smoke. She felt truly out of place. Then Sam saw her and waved her toward him. Golden hoped she didn’t look as surprised at his appearance as she really was. Sam looked terrible. She was enough of a doctor to recognize he was in shock. He didn’t smoke, as far as she remembered, but the smoke apparently came from him. He was grinding a butt into an overflowing ashtray. Golden had always wondered how nicotine had become the ubiquitous calming agent. The English made you a nice cup of tea. But in America, it was ‘here have something deadly. It will make you feel better.’
She sank down onto the couch next to Sam, and put her arms around him. At first he felt stiff and unyielding, but as she held him tight, she could feel his shoulders start to loosen and then the deep spasms as he began to cry. The man she presumed Sam had been talking to before she entered the room, looked at her with dismay. An uneasy mood settled into the room — real men don’t cry, she thought. But real men rarely faced having their daughter taken.
“Who are you?” As the agent said it, he pulled out his ID fast enough to let her know that he was new to the job. She had noticed that so far she had not had to show her ‘NSA’ card to anyone, nor had Gant offered his identification up to anyone.
Gant stood just inside the doorway of the apartment, a silent presence and she noted that once more no one asked him who he was or why he was here the same way none of the FBI people at the lake had gone up to him. They’d spent several hours in Kentucky before making the trip back to Memphis and then flying in to Pope Air Force Base in the wee hours of the morning, adjacent to Fort Bragg. During that time Gant hadn’t said a word and Golden had spent the time looking at her computer screen, trying to draw up long buried theories and writing.
Golden continued to hold Sam as he cried. She looked around Sam’s head and shushed the man she now knew was a Special Agent. She could tell that he wasn’t pleased, but he acquiesced by turning and searching for someone to speak to. Golden returned her attention to Sam and held him until the worst had passed. He straightened and leaned over to grab a couple of tissues. She ran her fingers through his hair. Even when she had seen him right out of bed, it had never appeared so askew. “It will be all right,” Golden said, the words feeling as weak as they sounded.
He looked at her. “Thanks for coming. I was surprised when they said you would be here. You know, with your son and everything else that’s happened. Seeing you now, I’m glad that you did.”
“I’m glad I’m here.” She looked around the room and wished they had more privacy. “What are all these people doing here?” She noted that Gant had drifted closer, listening.
“Standard procedure,” Sam said. “The FBI says there’s a good chance this could be for ransom. Goddamn.” He covered his face with hands displaying a fine tremor. “But I’ve got nothing, I’m not rich. I’m just an Army colonel. Why would someone do this?”
“Sam, tell me what did they say to you?”
He kept his hands over his face as if the words needed a guide to escort them out of his mouth. “She was at the beach, you know- spring break. She was there with three of her friends, and they were staying in a condo. The last night, Emily got tired and wanted to go back to the condo. Bitches. They let her go by herself. When they got back to the condo, they couldn’t get in. Emily had the key. Then they noticed her car wasn’t there. Luckily one of them had my number from Emily and called me. I had to raise hell to get the cops to investigate. I knew she wouldn’t disappear like that. They had to drive back to school that day.”
Golden did think that was extremely lucky. She could see the cops getting real worried about a twenty-one year old missing from Spring Break. “What about the witnesses?”
“There were two kids. They saw Emily in the parking lot. They said she was alone walking to her car.” His voice trailed off, as he turned to look at Gant. “Who are you?”
“Jack Gant.”
Golden was surprised as Sam stood, gathering himself, putting out his hand. “Geez, you were in the Ranger Battalion, weren’t you, back in ’93? Mogadishu?”
Gant simply nodded. “Yeah.”
“Bad time.”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you here?” Sam asked. Then it seemed to sink in and he glanced at Golden. “Why are you here? What’s going on?”
“There won’t be a ransom,” Gant said.
Smooth, thought Golden, real smooth and subtle. She shot a dagger look at Gant but he ignored it.
“What do you mean?” Sam demanded.
He sat in the chair opposite Sam. “Tell me what got fucked up.”
* * *
Emily sat bare breasted in a small circular clearing. That was the only geographical detail she knew. She had no idea what part of the country she was in, much less the state. After the long night, her focus was on shedding this shackle on her ankle. It was steel and very heavy; it looked very much like what prisoners shuffled to court wearing. She studied the lock. It looked the same as that of a handcuff, and to that end she was in the process of ripping apart her bra. It was proving difficult, and she would stop occasionally and take a few deep breaths and think about getting free.
She had checked her underarms, and decided there was about a day’s growth. She shaved every day out of some fastidious habit, which many of her friends found obsessive. If, not when, she got home, she would take great pleasure in having such a novel time clock. The problem, as she was all too aware, was that many miles could have been driven since her underarm was last smooth.
She had no idea that a bra could be so well made. It seemed impossible to rip the stitching under the cups without destroying the entire thing. Emily had started with the vague notion that the bra could remain usable. Finally, with all her strength, which was already frighteningly weakened, she tore the underside of the bra away. She gave a little cheer, as the thin curved wire dropped to her lap. She carefully straightened one side of the under wire, and crossed her captive foot over the other and gave herself some slack. She glanced around and then looked up to the sun. It wasn’t visible in the small patch of sky the trees left her, but she knew it was somewhere behind her. She wasn’t sure of the time of day but figured in a few hours she would know. She hoped the loon had brought her here in the early morning. That meant she had so
me time for the lock.
She knew that if she broke the wire she was fucked, so she promised herself she would stop when it got dark. The thought of being chained for another night made her almost nauseas. She banished the thought and focused on the lock. The wire was very thin and at first she was hesitant. Finally she decided to double the wire, and carefully weave it into a sturdier probe. For a long time she was completely immersed in the task, and thought of little except the small clicks of her makeshift key in the locking mechanism. Almost dreamily she began to think of the man who had taken her. She knew it was around three in the morning, and assuming he drove straight to this destination for somewhere in the vicinity of two days, she could be just about anywhere.
She wondered where her kidnapper was. As long as he didn’t return, she realized she didn’t give a damn.
She pressed on the wire and the close end jabbed into her thumb, opening up a quarter inch long cut and releasing a surprisingly large amount of blood.
Emily cursed, licked the blood off as best she could, then pressed the wound against the skirt for several minutes to stem the flow.
Then she went back to work.
* * *
“I’ve run a lot of operations over the years,” Sam Cranston said.
Gant simply stared at him. Golden was shifting in her seat, uncomfortable. Cranston had at first ignored Gant’s question. There’d been a bit of a ruckus when the senior FBI agent had come over and demanded to know who exactly Gant and Golden were and what their jurisdiction in this case was. Gant had finally been forced to show the man his ID and then recited a phone number for the man to call to confirm that he had clearance and precedence here.
The agent had made the call and been none too thrilled with whatever he’d been told. He’d ordered all his personnel from the apartment leaving the three of them sitting there, the sad eye of a now departed hurricane of activity. At least two of the three were sad — Gant had waited out the turf war with a resigned apathy.
When the room was clear he had turned back to Cranston and simply stared at him, evoking the vague answer.
“We all have,” Gant said. “And I know there are missions you are never supposed to speak of. To anyone, for any reason. It seems, though, as if someone has challenged that.”
“How so?” Cranston asked, as Golden’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two men. Gant knew she was out of her depth but he had no time to coach her.
“Someone is testing whether your loyalty to your oath or to your family is greater,” Gant said. “And that someone also has a very good idea that somebody like me would show up here and ask you what I’m asking you.” Gant reached into his pocket while Cranston digested that chain of logic. Gant looked at the piece of paper. “Cathy Svoboda. She was killed this morning. Throat sliced open, very smooth job. Her fiancée is a reservist. Pilot named Mark Lankin who flew missions for Task Force 160 over the years.”
Gant could see Cranston’s face go white on hearing about the death, but this was no time for subtlety.
“Ever fly with him?”
“I’ve flown with a lot of pilots in a lot of places,” Cranston said. “The name doesn’t ring any bells. Jesus. Come on. They’re just people in the front seat. You know that.”
Gant glanced at his notes. “Tracy Caulkins. Twenty-one years old, just like your daughter. Chained to a tree in the woods in Kentucky. Died of dehydration. We got part of her cache report at the site of your daughter’s kidnapping. So we know this one is definitely connected.”
Cranston’s face got even whiter if that was possible. “You’re saying whoever did this to this Caulkins girl has my Emily?”
“It seems pretty obvious.”
“And Emily is—“ Cranston couldn’t complete the sentence.
Golden finally contributed something besides concerned looks. “It would fit the pattern. Which means she’s still alive, Sam.”
“Why is someone doing this?” Cranston asked.
“Whoever is doing this knows cache reports,” Gant said.
Cranston struggled to see the logic. “So he’s special ops?”
“They don’t teach caches at Harvard.”
Cranston swallowed. “Who is Caulkins related to?”
“Her father. DEA. Southern region.”
For the first time Gant picked up the slightest of flicker of recognition in Cranston’s eyes. “You worked Southern Command out of Panama for a while, right?” Gant pushed. “Ever meet him?”
Cranston nodded. “Yes. We bumped into each other occasionally. But we never ran an op together.”
“Not even on Task Force Six?” Gant asked, seeing that they had left Golden far behind as he referred to the military units that were seconded to the DEA to help interdict drug traffickers.
Cranston shook his head. “When I was there we avoided doing Six work as much as possible.”
“Like you had a choice?” Gant let the sarcasm drip.
Cranston put his hands on either side of his head, obviously trying to think. Or block out reality, Gant thought.
“We did missions,” Cranston finally admitted. “The War on Drugs. Other stuff. Panama. Colombia. Peru. The Caribbean.”
Gant leaned forward. “Does anything come immediately to mind? A mission that got messed up? Someone who feels like you screwed them over in their career? Maybe someone you sent to the big house and is now out?” The reference was to Leavenworth and Gant knew someone at the Cellar was already checking the records of recently released prisoners.
Cranston’s brow was furrowed, but he slowly shook his head. “I’ve been in the Army over twenty-five years. Special Operations for over twenty. I can’t remember everyone I worked with or those I disciplined in my various commands.”
Gant glanced at Golden, hoping she would contribute something, given she knew the man. She had her hand on his arm, in a way that suggested a lot more than professional comfort. Gant realized that could be an advantage and considered whether to play it. Not yet.
Gant was about to speak when his Satphone vibrated. He pulled it out, listened to the succinct report and then closed it. “Another victim we think might be related. Caleigh Roberts. Nineteen. Killed last night on the Florida-Alabama border. Drowned in less than a foot of water. Her father works for the CIA. On what, they’re not being forthcoming with, but I’ll find out shortly. Ever heard of him?”
Cranston shook his head. “How is Roberts connected?”
“We don’t know yet other than the timing and the fact she’s a family member.”
Cranston looked at Golden. “Why—“ he seemed at a loss for words. He swallowed. “Why are you here?”
Gant sighed and waited.
Golden still had her hand on Cranston’s arm. “I’m working with Gant.”
Cranston shifted to Gant. “You’re not NSA.”
“No.” Gant relaxed slightly knowing that Cranston was finally coming back to reality.
“And you won’t tell me who you work for.”
“You have no need to know.”
“We’ll get Emily back,” Golden interjected.
Hope, Gant thought.
Cranston wasn’t buying it either. “That’s not your mission,” he said to Gant.
Gant could feel Golden’s eyes burning into his skull. He started to speak, then paused. Regroup, retreat, Gant thought. Take a different approach when things are different. “No, it’s not. But.” He sat back. “They’re aligned. My mission is whoever snatched your daughter. The faster I get to him, the better the chance we find her alive.”
“Why do you think she’s alive?
“Because of the cache report. Because whoever did this has something bigger in mind and this is just the beginning.”
“How do you know that?” Cranston asked.
Gant could see that Golden was also interested in his answer.
“Because, as the good doctor has noted, whoever is doing this is playing us and there are moves yet to be made.” Gant stood. “Y
ou need to think. About missions you ran and people you worked with that weren’t ever recorded. We’ll get all the recorded ones and go through them, so don’t waste time on that. Make a list.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a card that just had a number on it. “Call me when you think of anything.” He looked at Golden. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Golden asked.
This was why Gant liked working alone. No need to explain things. “To the most recent incident site.” Better phrased than ‘the most recent body’, Gant thought.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emily’s fingers bled more, which bothered her not so much because of the pain, but because the blood made holding the wire more difficult. She had tripled the wire, which, while strengthening it, had also correspondingly shortened it, making it more difficult to work with. All morning long she had made slight adjustments to the wire, bending it so slightly, there were times she wasn’t sure she had actually even done anything to it.
Taking a break, she glanced up through the leaves of the oak tree and checked the sun’s position. Mid-day, give or take an hour. She carefully put the wire down on a leaf and flexed her hands, feeling the pain as the cuts in her fingers pulsed out in protest. She ran her tongue around her lips, which were already cracking.
Emily shook her head. Do not think about water.
Think about something else. Something useful. She tried to remember the drive. How long had she been out? She didn’t think it had been more than a day. She vaguely remembered that the van had stopped somewhere en route. She’d been awake for a little while. She glanced down at her arm, at the two puncture marks. He’d drugged her again. But there had been that moment of semi-awareness between the first injection wearing off and the second one kicking in.
Something about that stop nagged at her, begging to be remembered. Emily closed her eyes, blocking out, one by one, the input from her senses, focusing inward. The way her father had taught her to focus. She flowed backward into the memory of those senses.
Had it been something she saw? No, there had only been darkness until he took the blindfold off here in the forest.
