Lost Girls tc-2 Page 13

  * * *

  Nero turned to Hannah Masterson as he put the phone down. As he expected, she spoke before he had a chance to.

  “You can’t commit Neeley to doing a damn thing.”

  “Ms. Neeley committed herself a long time ago,” Nero said. “She just hasn’t accepted the reality of her current situation. What is she going to do? Take up knitting?”

  Masterson sat still and just stared at Nero, knowing, of course, that any non-verbal effort was wasted on him. “She has a choice.”

  “Really?” Nero asked. “You believe in free will?”

  “Yes, I do,” Masterson said.

  “Good,” Nero said. “So do I. But you only have a choice when you have options. What are Neeley’s options?” Nero asked. When no answer was forthcoming, he pressed on. “She is what her life made her. What Anthony Gant made her. And what her own choices made her.”

  “And that is?”

  “A tool for you to use.”

  “Like I’m a tool for you to use?” Masterson countered.

  “We’re all tools,” Nero said. “Those who know that they are hold the advantage. Ms. Neeley has been putting off the inevitable. Now it’s time to jar her back into reality.”

  “That’s—“ Masterson began, but Nero cut her off.

  “Perhaps I was a bit harsh saying she was a tool. She’s a person whose life has been shaped a certain way. Do you think she would be content sitting in the West Virginia hills keeping a home like Jesse Gant is? You spent time with her and saw her in action. And you also spent considerable tending a home and being the good wife and that didn’t suit you either. The worst possible existence is living a lie.”

  A long silence followed that and, not for the first time or the last, Nero missed his eyes. He wondered what expressions were passing over Ms. Masterson’s face. When she finally did speak, the suddenness almost startled him.

  “We talked about that, Neeley and I. About how we were made into tools that men used. Whether it was her being taught the trade of killing or me being taught how to prepare a dinner for my husband’s boss. But, obviously, what I was taught didn’t take. And I am now a much different person than who I was. So why doesn’t Neeley have the same option?”

  “Neeley wasn’t taught to be who she is initially,” Nero said. “She was born that way and then had the good fortune to follow her instincts. Meeting Jean-Philippe and entering his world was not a random choice. She was drawn to it. Then Mister Gant finding her was not random. He sensed her and it was more than the bomb she was carrying. He sensed a kindred spirit. She wasn’t running from things like you were. You weren’t making choices, you were trying to avoid bad things. When I studied your profile so many years ago and saw what happened to you as a child and how you reacted to it, I sensed who you really were.”

  “So, I’m making choices now?”

  “Yes.” Nero paused. “And it is your choice whether or not to call Mister Bailey to go pose the choice to Ms. Neeley.”

  * * *

  Jesse Gant and Neeley sat on the wooden porch watching the first hint of dawn creep over the mountains to the east. In the week that Neeley had been visiting, they had both fallen in the habit of rising early and bringing a steaming cup of coffee out to the deck and sitting there, watching the valley below the house slowly reveal itself. They watched the line of light creep across the lush forest.

  They resembled each other, something both had noted on first meeting but not talked about. Neeley was almost six feet tall, Jesse just a shade shorter. Neeley had short, dark hair, while Jesse’s was styled almost the same but red. Both were slender and in good shape. The major difference was in their faces. Neeley’s skin was smooth and unblemished while Jesse’s was liberally sprinkled with freckles.

  Most mornings they had talked of Tony Gant, the man they had in common and had both loved. Jesse had left Tony and Neeley had been left in death by him. But the last two mornings the talk had shifted from the past and Tony, to the future and his son with Jesse: Bobbie. He was twenty-two but with the mental capacity of someone a decade younger. He was Jesse’s son and Tony Gant’s legacy to Neeley: on his deathbed he had asked her to take his son and she had promised that she would. It was a situation both women had danced around and finally gotten down to working out.

  As promised, Neeley would continue to contribute financially to Bobbie’s future although she knew the money she had taken from the drug dealers Tony had set up for her would not last indefinitely.

  “Tony used to watch from there,” Neeley said, as the pre-dawn light made it clear enough to see where she was pointing. “From that ridgeline. I came here with him one time. We spent two days up there. He was very proud of Bobbie.”

  “That didn’t do Bobbie any good,” Jesse noted. “Watching but not interacting.”

  “Gant was afraid if he contacted you or Bobbie it would bring trouble.”

  “Yet trouble came anyway,” Jesse said. “Tony was a good guy but he lived too much in his own head. He figured if he thought something, it was real to other people. But they didn’t know what he thought so it wasn’t real.”

  “He did the best he could,” Neeley said.

  “I know.” Jesse took a sip of her coffee, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug. “That was the Gant boys — doing their best.”

  “Did you know his brother Jack well?” Neeley asked.

  This earned her a sharp look from Jesse. “Yes.”

  “He works for the Cellar, right?”

  “As far as I know,” Jesse said. “I haven’t heard from him in years.”

  “I’ve wondered why Gant — Tony — didn’t want me to go to his brother for help,” Neeley said.

  Jesse gave a wry smile. “He went down that road once before. He was big on not making the same mistake twice.”

  “His rules,” Neeley noted.

  “Yes, his damn rules.”

  “What do you mean he went down that road before?” Neeley asked, broaching a subject both had avoided.

  Surprisingly, Jesse smiled wistfully. “Well they were twins, you know.”

  “You mean—“

  Jesse shook her head. “It was nothing duplicitous. As I told you, I worked for the Cellar also for a little while. Mister Nero was desirous of having both the Gants working for him. Same face, two different places. I suppose Nero saw lots of possibilities in that. Nero is always looking for possibilities. Tony was in, but Jack was still in the Regular Army, serving in the Rangers. So Mister Nero sent me to recruit Jack.”

  “You’re kidding?” Neeley looked shocked. “He used you like that?”

  “It was who I was,” Jesse said simply. “It wasn’t a sexual thing. I had this aura and Nero knew its affect on men. I supposed that’s why he only sent me to recruit people, not kill them.”

  “Shit,” Neeley suddenly said.

  “What’s wrong—“ Jesse began, but then she heard it too, echoing dimly over the forested country-side. An inbound helicopter.

  Both women watched as a black Bell Jet Ranger came swooping down the valley, flying very low, military low, just above the treetops. The chopper flared over the field across the county road from Jesse’s place and touched down. The side door opened and a non-descript man stepped out.

  “Shit,” Neeley muttered.

  “Nero’s dog,” Jesse said as they both watched Bailey walk across the road and up the driveway toward them. She looked over at Neeley. “And he’s come to fetch.”

  Bailey stopped at the base of the stairs leading to the deck and looked up at Jesse. “May I come up?”

  Jesse stood. “Have time for a cup of coffee?”

  Both women could see the struggle on Bailey’s face as he considered the question. He appeared to be in a rush but his last visit here had been a difficult one. “Just one.” He came up the stairs as Jesse went inside. He looked at Neeley.

  “You appear well.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  “I did my duty,” Bailey s
aid in a tone that indicted the matter was not open for discussion.

  Jesse came out with a mug and handed it to Bailey before taking her seat. All three could hear the sound of the helicopter’s engine still running. The fact that the pilot had not shut down indicated Bailey did not plan on discussing the weather.

  “Are you here for me?” Neeley asked. “Or is this a social call?”

  “I am here for you,” Bailey acknowledged. He glanced Jesse. “Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see you again, Jesse. How is Bobbie?”

  “He’s doing well. No thanks to you or the Cellar.”

  Bailey dropped his eyes. “I apologized for that. Things got out of hand.”

  “You think?” Jesse said.

  Bailey lifted the cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. “Mister Nero sends his regards,” he said to Jesse. He shifted his gaze to Neeley. “Mister Nero sends a summons. We require your assistance in a matter of some urgency.”

  “We?”

  “Mister Nero and Ms. Masterson.”

  Jesse’s eyebrows lifted. “So she’s doing it?”

  Bailey nodded. “It is who she is. She sits behind the desk now.”

  “But Nero is close by,” Jesse said, earning a wry smile from Bailey.

  “At the side of the desk.” The smile disappeared. “But I am afraid he does not have much longer.”

  “What’s the matter of urgency?” Neeley asked.

  “We can discuss that on the way,” Bailey said, setting down the mug.

  Neeley remained still for several moments. She glanced at Jesse and the older woman gave a slight nod. “You’ll always have a place here if you want it.”

  “Thank you,” Neeley said. She sighed and stood. Jesse also got up and went to Neeley. The two women embraced and then, without another word, Neeley went down the stairs toward the waiting helicopter, Bailey right behind her.

  Neeley climbed into the chopper. Bailey sat down next to her, slamming the door shut and giving the pilot the thumbs-up. The bird lifted and sped away to the east, toward the rising sun. Neeley noted a long metal case lying on the floor at her feet and she knew what it contained. She reached up and put on a set of headphones and Bailey did the same.

  “What’s the mission?” she asked, tapping the metal case with her foot.

  “We assume you use the same weaponry that the late Mister Gant used,” Bailey said. “Accuracy International L96A1 firing NATO standard size 5.56mm by 51mm rounds. There is a freshly tooled muzzle suppressor and your rounds were loaded by our armorer and are subsonic.”

  Neeley knew that meant the sniper rifle in the case was essentially noiseless beyond the sound of the bolt moving which wouldn’t be heard more than five feet from a firing position. “The mission?” she repeated.

  “There is a man who we believe is being targeted by a rogue agent,” Bailey said. “Actually, we think it’s more likely the agent will be going after the man’s family, and since that consists only of his wife and the two are currently in the same house, it’s the same thing.”

  Neeley thought Bailey was phrasing things rather oddly, but then again she’d never worked with the man. Bailey pulled a manila folder out of his metal briefcase and extended a black and white photo to Neeley. A distinguished looking man in his fifties and his wife, who appeared about a decade younger than him.

  “He’s a State Department official,” Bailey continued as Neeley committed the images of the two people to memory, visualizing them in the scope of her rifle as Gant had taught her, even though they were not the targets. It was just a technique, one that worked well. “The two are currently holed up on their summer farm in the Virginia country-side. That’s where we’re headed now.”

  “Why not just put some cops on them?”

  “The State Department has a pair of security officers guarding them,” Bailey said.

  Neeley considered the information, putting the pieces in place. “You want the target more than you care about the safety of the couple.”

  Bailey’s mouth twitched in what might be considered a smile as he pulled a piece of gum out of his pocket and began to peel away the wrapper. “How did you come up with that?”

  “Three things,” Neeley said and then she ticked them off on her long fingers. “One. It’s stupid to put them out in the country where they’re less safe. Bury them deep in the J. Edgar Hoover building or someplace like that and they’re a lot harder target to get to. Two. They already have apparent protection so I’m going to be doing something else. Three. The sniper rifle means I’m going to be standing off at a distance not standing at their side as deterrence.”

  “Very good,” Bailey said as he put the gum in his mouth. “And if at all possible, we would like the target to be incapacitated, not killed. We have some rather important questions to ask of him.” He reached into the case and brought out another folder and spread three photographs out. Three men in military uniforms glared back at her. “The target will be one of these. Maybe two of them working in concert. But we doubt all three will be there.”

  “And the information you want is where the others are?”

  “Correct.” He pulled out another photo, this one satellite imagery. He pointed as he spoke. “The couple is in this farm-house. This is the barn. The two State Department security guys are staying outside, one doing a walking perimeter around the house and barn, the other inside this van monitoring security cameras they set up. They get relieved by another shift every twelve hours.” He took out a topographic map and placed it alongside the imagery so she could get an idea of the terrain in more than the two dimensional photographic way.

  Neeley evaluated the area the way Gant had taught. Which meant looking at avenues of approach to the farm-house and fields of fire. She reached out and tapped a spot on the photo about three hundred meters from the house. A small knoll covered in trees. “Here.”

  Bailey looked at and nodded. “Fine. We’ll insert you about two klicks away on the other side of this ridge.”

  “The State Department security people won’t know I’m there, I assume.”

  “Correct.”

  “What do I do if they compromise me? They’ll think I’m an attacker.”

  “Don’t let them compromise you,” Bailey simply said. He reached down and pulled up a small knapsack. “Food, a blanket, water. Enough for twenty-four hours. And a radio. FM set to the proper frequency.”

  “What about exfiltration?”

  “We’ll come get you.”

  “Oh sure.”

  Once more Bailey almost smiled. “Mister Gant taught you well, but be assured we would not waste someone of your talents by not coming to pick you up.” He reached into his briefcase and removed a small PDA. “All the information on this mission is in here. Peruse it while you wait.” He brought out a small cell phone with a headset out. “Satellite direct. We’re bringing in some more people later today and will contact you on how to rendezvous with them.”

  “Who?” Neeley asked as she took the phone.

  “Two people. One of them is Jack Gant.”

  * * *

  The first thing Emily became aware of was the smell of moisture. She slowly opened her eyes and stared at the blades of grass right in front of her face. Her eyes focused on the tiny, glistening drops of dew on the thin green blades. She edged her head forward and her tongue slithered out, sliding along the closest blades, taking in the scant moisture.

  She crawled forward on her belly, licking the grass. It was only when the shackle on her ankle jerked her to a halt did she once more become aware of her surroundings and her reality. Her face was damp, her tongue barely moistened from all her efforts. The front of her shirt was smeared with dirt and grass.

  And her thirst was not slated in the slightest. Emily shook her head, more at the pathetic nature of her instinctual action than anything else. She lifted her head up and looked around, remembering the animal that had come close during the night. There was no sign of—

  Emily’s brea
thing stopped as she caught site of what was pinned to the tree she was shackled to: her driver’s license. She crawled to the tree and stared at the small piece of plastic, her own image gazing back at her. A single small thumb-tack was pressed through the center of it.

  There was a vertical red line on the license, which she puzzled over for a few seconds before realizing it was dried blood. And the line continued up the bark of the tree.

  Emily froze, not wanting to look up, but she knew she had to. Set in the crotch of the first branch was a dog’s severed head. Its lifeless eyes stared back at her. Emily tried to swallow but her throat was too dry. Her stomach heaved but there was nothing to vomit.

  Emily turned her head, looking at the wall of vegetation surrounding the clearing. He was out there. She knew it. Watching her. She felt a chill pass through her body as she realized he’d come over to the tree in the middle of the night while she was sleeping and tacked the license there and put the dog’s head in the tree. For her to see. She knew right away his ploy: he wanted her to despair, to give up.

  Emily slowly got to her feet, feeling the strain on her muscles. She stood tall, then took several deep breaths to calm down. She folded her arms across her chest, grabbing her elbows tightly with her hands for control.

  “Fuck you!” she screamed. “You will not win. Fuck you, you asshole.”

  * * *

  In his hide site, the Sniper had adjusted the video camera set on the small tripod, making sure he caught all of Emily as she got to her feet and began screaming. He had the audio turned off, so while it was obvious she was saying something, the actual words wouldn’t be recorded. Which was just as well.

  He had almost an entire hour of tape recorded over the course of the last two days. His favorite was when she worked on the shackle with the wire from her bra. He’d been concerned at first, then fascinated by her meticulous efforts. He’d even felt slightly disappointed when the wire broke. But just slightly.

  Her current defiance he found almost amusing. She thought herself so important. And she was nothing, a piece in the plan. He checked his watch. A plan whose next step was getting ready to unfold.