“The people you met with. I want names and I want to know how to find them.”
“I don’t know where they are,” Giacona said.
Unfortunately for him, the look in his eyes told a different story.
__________
“JUST THE THREE outside,” Daeng said.
Nate’s gaze stayed on the front door of the farmhouse just down the hill from where they were hiding. “And the two we saw go in the main building makes five. At least. A place this size, I think we should assume there could be up to ten.”
Daeng nodded in agreement.
Giacona had not known exactly where the others were. What he had known was the name of the contact he had given the leader of the group that had shown up at Julien’s. The contact belonged to a private organization that might have been able to arrange suitable, secluded accommodations. With only minor additional prodding, the Italian had placed a call to the contact, saying he had some equipment he was supposed to deliver to the team leader, but couldn’t find the address he’d been given. Since Giacona was the one who’d put everyone in communication in the first place, the contact didn’t even bat an eye when he relayed the information.
After that, it took tremendous will on Nate’s part not to shoot the arms dealer in the back of the head. He settled for clubbing him in the temple with his gun, then tying him up and stuffing him in a closet with the other two. The one who’d been shot was no longer bleeding as much as before. Still, he was in serious need of a doctor, but that was not Nate’s concern. In his mind, Giacona and, by extension, his men had committed an unforgiveable crime. When this was all over, Nate would make sure the rest of the freelance intelligence world knew the truth about the tracking devices and the unauthorized disclosure of information to a third party. That would terminate Giacona’s career, if not his life.
The farm was south of the city, sandwiched between tree-covered hills on one side and a vineyard with row after row of maturing vines on the other. There were two buildings: a two-story, traditional-looking main house, and a taller, rectangular-shaped outbuilding that had a single door on one side, but no other visible doorways or windows.
Nate and Daeng had already done a complete circle around the property, using the vines as cover along the back, and going farther out on either side to remain unseen in the brush.
Nate nodded at the outbuilding, and said, “That’s got to be where they’re holding her.”
If Mila was in the house, the others wouldn’t have wasted manpower putting a guard near the entrance to the outbuilding. Given that a man was posted there, it was logical that she was inside.
“One way in, one way out,” Daeng said. “If you’re right, she’s going to be hard to get to.”
“But not impossible,” Nate said.
“No. Few things are impossible.”
Despite his earlier doubts, Nate was warming up to Daeng. In truth, his concerns had stemmed from the fact he hadn’t known the guy, and, if he was completely honest, a tinge of unexpected jealousy that Daeng had replaced him as Quinn’s go-to guy. Idiotic, he knew, but there it was. Now, that was starting to fade.
“So how do we know for sure she is there?” Daeng asked.
“Excellent question.” Nate scanned the grounds. “If we can get close enough, we might be able to find out.”
“If we both go, that’ll double the risk we’ll be noticed.”
“True.”
“So just one of us, then. Unless you’re not worried about that.” Daeng paused, then said, “We could just go in and take everyone out.”
Nate had been thinking the same thing, but knew it was not the right call. As confident as he was that these were the people who had Mila, they still couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. While Daeng had seen the faces of the men who’d gone into Julien’s building, he had yet to see any of the same ones here so far. Perhaps Giacona and his contact had given Nate a false lead, in which case Mila wouldn’t be here at all. They had to be sure before they tried anything aggressive.
“We’ll save that option for later,” Nate said. “For now, I’ll go.”
“I can do it.”
“I’m sure you can, but I need to do this.”
Daeng dipped his head in acceptance.
“Comm gear,” Nate said, reaching into his pocket.
As he pulled out his mic and earpiece, he felt something crinkle in the inside pocket of his jacket. He reached in and pulled out Mila’s envelope. In the rush to get Quinn medical attention, then to find Mila before it was too late, he’d forgotten all about it.
Whatever it contained had been important to Mila. He patted the outside of the envelope. Bunched together at the bottom were two square shapes, each a little less than half the size of a credit card. The flap was taped in place, not sealed, so he undid the top corner and peeked inside. The squares were flash drives, the bigger kind some cameras used a few years earlier. It was too dark to see how much data they held, but based on their apparent age, he doubted either was larger than a few hundred megabytes. They could have held almost anything, but ultimately it wasn’t his business.
He folded the envelope and handed it to Daeng. “Hold on to this. I think it might be what Mila took from Julien’s place. She’ll want it back.”
Daeng put it in his pocket.
“I’ll check the house first. Come at it from the rear,” Nate said. “You be my eyes and ears, so try not to get me killed.”
The corner of Daeng’s mouth rose. “No promises.”
__________
FROM HIS HIDDEN position on the hill, Daeng was able to steer Nate clear of the guards, and get him to the farmhouse. From that point it was up to Nate. All Daeng could do was watch his back.
The house was well built—perhaps too well. Not just any old farmhouse, Nate decided. He was sure it had been built specifically for one purpose—to be used as a safe house.
There were windows along the back, but no doors, so no easy way in. He peeked around the side, hoping for something a bit more helpful. But it was just as devoid of potential access points as the back.
“Down, down, down!” Daeng said in his ear.
Nate dropped to the ground.
“Guard coming around, walking close to the building.”
Nate hugged the dirt.
A moment later, he could hear the crunch of footsteps. As the man neared the corner Nate had just peeked around, he paused.
Without moving a muscle, Nate mentally worked out the most efficient way to retrieve his gun in time to do any good.
There was the sound of a scratch, then the whiff of sulfur, followed seconds later by the strong odor of cigarette smoke.
Nate could hear the man take a couple of puffs.
Reach for the grip while you roll, Nate told himself. Pull up and over. Fire.
He ran the drill through his mind one more time.
A step. Not one continuing around the building, but one toward the building.
Come on, buddy. Turn back around. Walk away.
Unfortunately, the man didn’t turn, and he didn’t walk away. He came right up to the building, only a foot or two around the corner. So close, in fact, that if Nate reached above his head and slipped his hand around the edge, he could have probably grabbed the guy’s ankle.
What the hell was this idiot doing? All the man had to do was glance around the corner and he’d see Nate.
Turn.
Around.
And.
Walk.
Away.
If Nate thought it any louder, the words would actually fly from his lips.
The man unzipped his pants.
No. No, no, no, no!
At first he heard the sound of a few drops hitting the building, then a steady stream. Nate had no idea how the ground that butted up against the house was grated. Would the growing puddle reach around to where he was lying?
He felt the sudden urge to jump up and run, but if he moved, the guard would hear him.
&nbs
p; You couldn’t have just used a tree?
The smell of urine intensified, which he knew had to mean it was getting closer. As carefully as possible, he lifted his head until it hovered a quarter inch above the ground.
Around the corner, the stream finally turned to a trickle. After a few more seconds, it stopped completely. The guard zipped up and walked away.
As soon as he felt it was safe, Nate sat up. The dirt where his head had been lying was indeed soaked. Nate touched the collar of his shirt, then moved his hand up the side of his head, over his ear and hair.
Dry.
“I take it he didn’t see you,” Daeng said.
“Almost.”
“You’re clear at the moment if you want to come back.”
“Not yet.”
Though getting out sounded like a great idea, Nate knew he still had to check the other building.
“Where are the guards?” he whispered.
“All three out front,” Daeng reported. “One by the cars, one on the porch, and the last still in front of the other building.”
“Let me know if anybody moves.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Hopefully not something stupid.”
“Copy that.”
Nate headed back to the vines in the field behind the house, and used them to hide his movements as he snuck along the row. Once he was directly behind the outbuilding, he straightened up and moved quietly over to the structure.
The long backside was a flat, plastered surface with no indications there had ever been windows or doors there. Both the right and left side were equally unadorned. As he and Daeng had noted earlier, the only direct way in or out was the door out front.
He worked his way along the far end of the building up to the front corner, crouched down, and used the camera function on his phone to peek around the corner. The closest guard stood fifty feet in front of the outbuilding, his attention focused on the hills.
Nate angled the camera so he could get a better look at the building itself. The front door was about ten feet from his position.
Don’t do it, a voice in his head said.
He took a step forward.
Don’t!
Another step brought him fully around the corner. Keeping his pace slow, and his profile as low to the ground as possible, he crept all the way to the door, reached out, and grabbed the knob.
“Um, what are you doing?” Daeng asked.
Nate was in no position to answer, which was probably for the best since he was asking himself the same question.
He twisted the handle, half expecting it wouldn’t move, but it did. When the latch was clear, he gently pushed inward until the door moved beyond the jamb.
Light streamed out from inside, not particularly bright, but, given the darkness outside, more than enough to be noticed if anyone was looking in the right direction. If he opened the door any wider, the chances of that happening skyrocketed.
He silently groaned in frustration. Unless he could get inside, he couldn’t know for sure if Mila was there.
He cocked his head and listened through the narrow opening. Quiet.
“More men exiting the house,” Daeng said. “You might want to get out of there.”
Nate glanced at the other building, and saw movement on the porch.
Wonderful.
Having no choice, he eased the door closed, and quickly moved back around the side of the house.
“Two of them are headed your way,” Daeng said.
“And the others?”
“One’s still on the porch, the second’s doing a sweep around the house.”
“Okay.”
“You are getting out of there, right?”
“Soon.”
More guards meant more chances of being caught, but it also signaled a potential opportunity. Nate pressed himself as close to the edge as he could get, and listened.
He picked out the two distinct patterns of steps almost immediately, one man taking longer strides than the other. Then a voice, indistinct at first.
“…bably tomorrow.”
“Okay. Sure,” a second voice said.
The steps continued until they reached the outbuilding, then stopped. There was the sound of metal on metal, someone opening the door and not worrying about being heard.
“Any requests and your answer is no.”
“Of course.”
They walked inside and the door shut behind them.
Nate replayed what they’d said. It hadn’t been much, but the “any requests and your answer is no” seemed odd.
He leaned toward his mic and said quietly, “Keep an eye on it and see how many come out. Time for me to leave.”
As Nate was making his way through the vineyard, Daeng said, “The door’s opening again.” He paused. “Two coming. One of them from before, but the other one’s new.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Any requests and your answer is no.
Instructions to someone who’s about to guard a prisoner, that’s what it sounded like to Nate. And if that were the case…
Mila.
Again, not indisputable proof, but to Nate it was damn close.
__________
MILA PACED BACK and forth in her pitch-black cell. Her captors had taken her shoes and socks, so twice she had stubbed her toe against the wall.
For a while, she had tried lying down, but that had only driven her crazy. At least the pacing was helping to quell the excess anxiety she felt building inside.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Turn.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Turn.
One. Two. Three—
Someone touched the handle on the other side of her door. She stopped, and shifted most of her weight onto her back foot so she could sprint out of the room if the opportunity presented itself.
As the door opened, the light that spilled through temporarily blinded her, but in that initial split second she had seen the dark outlines of two men standing just outside. She eased the pressure off her leg, her potential run for freedom currently off the table.
She squinted until her eyes adjusted to the light.
Not two men, three.
She idly wondered if they were finally going to administer drugs or do whatever they had in mind to get her to talk. Part of her wished they would. Hanging around in the dark was just wasting time. Any change could provide—however small the odds—the opportunity for escape.
“Turn around,” one of the men said.
She did.
“Now face me again.”
She did that, too.
His gaze traveled up and down her body, stopping at her foot. “What happened?”
She looked down at her bloody toe, and shrugged. Let him figure it out.
He stared at her. “You might want to get some sleep.”
He took a step back, and one of the others shut the door.
She remained where she was standing, the afterimage of the lit doorway still glowing in her retinas. Then, once she was sure they weren’t coming back, she started pacing again.
CHAPTER 22
APRIL 12th, 2006
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
“THAT’S IT RIGHT there,” the woman said. She had introduced himself as Ms. Hafner, but by the way she’d stumbled when she said it, it was clear to Mila the woman had never used that name before.
Mila didn’t care. That was the business. Some people were just better at it than others.
The package was a square box no more than two inches high. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. It reminded her of those old-time packages she’d seen in the movies. Parcels, they’d called them.
What it contained, she didn’t know, nor was she even curious. That wasn’t her job. Couriers seldom were told what they were carrying. It was better that way.
Having already been informed that the item being transported was small, she’d brought along her brown shoulder bag. She pi
cked up the box and deposited it inside.
“Anything else?” she asked. There seldom was, but she always checked.
“No, that’s it. You can go.”
A dismissal. That didn’t sit well. She may have been just a courier, but that didn’t make her any less important than the woman. Still, she stifled the response she wanted to give, and left with a smile. Work was work. No sense in pissing off a client.
More times than not, she would travel by commercial airliner. In a way, it provided a bit of a thrill as she passed through various airport security checks carrying packages filled with the unknown. Not once had she ever been stopped and searched.
Sometimes her clients would arrange for her to fly on a private jet or even on a governmental aircraft. Those trips never required a security check. She would simply be ushered on board and directed to a seat. Those kinds of flights were a mixed bag. Sometimes they were relaxing and enjoyable, other times they were uncomfortable and boring.
On this particular assignment, she’d been instructed to go to a private airfield just outside of Atlanta, where she would be hitching a ride on a noncommercial flight to Lisbon, Portugal.
As she drove through the city, she hoped and prayed the trip would not be completely horrible. A small private jet would be nice, something with cushy seats and a stocked bar.
She was well out of the city and into an area of farms and scattered homes when she finally reached the turnoff for the airport. The drive had taken her longer than she’d expected, causing her to push the outside window of the time she’d been given to catch the plane. So when she crested the hill and saw that it was still waiting at the airport just a quarter mile away, she was both relieved and annoyed. She was going to make it, but she certainly wasn’t going to be flying in style.
Though there were no markings on the side of the aircraft, Mila had no doubt the plane belonged to the US military. It was a modified commercial passenger jet. Not large like a 747, but the smaller type.
737? 727?
She wasn’t sure. Identifying planes wasn’t one of her specialties. What she did know was that military flights were devoid of any extra comforts. The best she could hope for at this point was not getting stuck traveling over the Atlantic with a troop of soldiers. That had happened to her once, and she’d been the recipient of a nonstop barrage of bad pickup lines.
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