Lost Girls tc-2 Page 4

  Done with clothing and protection, he weaponed up. First a leather belt that had a wire garrote hidden on the inside curve, held in place by a few threads that could easily be parted. Then he strapped a sheath holding a slim dagger to his left ankle, underneath the pants cuff.

  He velcroed a pistol in a waist holster to the body armor in the small of his back, hidden under the bottom of the shirt, which he left un-bloused. The pistol was a Glock Model 20, holding 15 rounds of 10mm ammunition. It had an integrated laser sight built into the gun itself, replacing the recoil spring guide assembly, just below the barrel. Touching the trigger activated the laser. With no external hammer, the gun could smoothly be drawn from under his shirt without catching, and the safety was built into the trigger, allowing rapid fire.

  Gant had used many handguns over the years. While he liked the Glock, he also knew that the gun was only half the issue. The other important component was the bullets. At the Cellar armory, he’d taken standard load 10mm rounds, customized and reloaded them for high muzzle velocity and disintegration upon impact with a target for maximum damage. He slid two spare magazines into holders on either side of the gun.

  There were other weapons in the case, but since Gant had little idea what was to be expected or what was going to happen next, he shut the lid and retook his seat, the gun pressing up against the small of his back and the body armor tight around his torso, both familiar feelings.

  The two men had yet to exchange another word. Not out of any dislike but because neither saw the need for conversation at this point. The sound of the engines filled the silence as the plane taxied and then took off.

  Gant didn’t like the idea of someone else being part of this. He worked alone, Nero knew that. The fact that Bailey was bringing in some shrink meant Nero didn’t want him to work alone on this. Thus there was no point in protesting a decision Nero made or even asking for an explanation.

  The pilot’s voice echoed tinnily out of a speaker informing them that the plane was on approach for Hilton Head Airfield, less than two minutes after taking off from Parris Island. The wheels locked down and thirty seconds later they were on the ground.

  Gant glanced out the small round window and saw a deputy sheriff’s patrol car next to the runway. A tall woman with dark hair pulled back tight got out. To Gant it seemed that not only was her hair pulled tight but every muscle in her body. He guessed her age to be mid-30s give or take. She reminded him in a way of a post-assassination, pre-Onassis, Jackie, both in looks and because she appeared to be bearing some kind of burden. She looked around, checking everything, before walking toward the plane.

  Bailey opened the door and helped her in, shutting it immediately. Gant watched his lips and saw that Bailey was introducing himself to the shrink, which meant she was new to the Cellar. The plane was taxiing before they claimed their seats.

  “Doctor Susan Golden meet Jack Gant.”

  She stuck her hand out and Gant took it briefly without rising. She was directly across from him, Bailey to her left. The small table was between them. There was no one else in the rear of the plane and the door to the cockpit had not opened, nor would it. The engines peaked as they raced down the runway, the nose was up and they were airborne.

  Gant leaned back in the seat and waited as Bailey opened the metal briefcase. He could sense the woman’s gaze on him but he ignored her.

  Bailey tossed a photo on the table. The same young girl smiling at whoever was taking the picture.

  “You know her?” Bailey asked Golden.

  “I’ve seen her picture but never met her. Sam Cranston’s daughter. What happened to her?”

  Gant clasped his hands together in his lap and waited.

  Bailey glanced at a piece of paper. “Emily Cranston was leaving a bar in Panama City, Florida by herself at approximately one twenty yesterday morning. Two men in an Explorer say they passed close by a girl who fit her description. They noticed her because she was alone. She ducked between two cars to get out of their way. They didn’t see her again. When they came around again they noticed an empty space close to where they saw her, because the lot was full. They figured she just left.

  “Her roommates arrived back at their condo at about four am. They couldn’t get in because Emily had the only key and wasn’t there to open the door as they’d arranged. They got the rental company to let them in. She wasn’t inside. That afternoon after she didn’t show and they were due to head home, they went back to the club and found her car. One of them called the cops. Who checked the parking lot of the bar and found not only her car but two other things.”

  Gant leaned forward.

  Bailey put the paper he’d shown Gant on the table.

  “What’s this?” Golden asked.

  Bailey glanced at Gant.

  “An incomplete cache report,” Gant said. He put his finger on the first line. “This is the immediate reference point, the IRP. Then an azimuth and direction to the cache.”

  “I don’t understand,” Golden said.

  Bailey cleared his throat. “We think that someone has cached Emily Crantson.”

  “Why do you think that?” Golden pressed. “How do you even know it’s regarding Emily?”

  “As you know,” Bailey said, “Emily’s father is the commander of the Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. Where they teach this format as a cache report. Mister Nero is not a fan of remarkable coincidence.”

  Golden turned to Gant. “You said it was incomplete?”

  “It’s missing four things,” Gant said. “There’s no area designation, far reference point, and azimuth and direction to the immediate reference point. Area gets you in the right part of the world. Say a country or a state. Then far reference point is a specific spot you can find on a standard one to fifty thousand geographic map. A bridge. A road intersection. A mountain top. Without those two, the IRP is worthless because it could be anywhere in the world.”

  The report was typed:

  IRP: STONE CHIMENY

  A/D: 274 DEGREES, TWO HUNDRED AND SIX METERS

  Gant now realized the report was missing a fifth part. “It also doesn’t say how the actual cache is put in.”

  “Put in?” Golden asked.

  “Usually a cache is buried.”

  Golden looked slightly stunned at this piece of information.

  “So she could be dead already?” Bailey asked.

  Gant shrugged. “Normally the idea of a cache is to be able to recover what you put in it in a usable condition.”

  “But this isn’t normal,” Golden said.

  “I’ve never heard of a person being cached,” Gant said.

  “He’s taunting us,” Golden said.

  Gant ran a hand across his chin. It had been a couple of days since he’d shaved. “Taunting?”

  “If this—“ Golden tapped the cache report—“is about Emily and was left by whoever abducted her, if she was abducted, then it was left deliberately to give us incomplete information. To make us feel the lack of that information. A tease.”

  The only lack Gant felt at the moment was the loss of his brother, which he was forcing himself not to dwell on, and whatever Bailey had yet to brief them on. Some of the pieces were falling into place. This shrink apparently knew Colonel Cranston. Whether that was a good thing or bad, Gant had no idea.

  “How do you know it’s a he?” Gant asked.

  “I’m not positive, but my research indicates it almost certainly would be a man who did this.”

  Gant wondered what her research was on. He looked at Bailey. “You said there were two things found.”

  Bailey reached in the briefcase and brought out a second piece of paper. “There were two pieces of paper left in the parking lot.” He placed it on the table.

  Gant looked at it. Another cache report. An almost complete one.

  FRP: NORTHERN TIP LAKE

  A/D TO IRP: 46 DEGREES, 8,620 METERS

  IRP: ROAD JUNCTION

  A/D TO CACHE: 203 DEGREES, 546
METERS

  “Still missing the area and condition of the actual cache,” Gant noted, “so it’s almost as worthless as the other one.”

  “I know,” Bailey said.

  “So where are we going now?” Gant asked.

  “The Cellar to wait. The Auxiliary have been alerted. We’ll hear if anything happens.”

  Golden’s eyes were dancing back and forth between Gant and Bailey, trying to keep up. “Who exactly are you? And what is the Cellar and who is this Nero fellow? And what is the Auxiliary?”

  “Mister Nero is in charge of the Cellar,” Bailey said. “We work for him.”

  “And the Cellar is?” Golden pressed.

  Instead of answering, Bailey opened the case and pulled out a half-inch thick stack of plastic coated identification cards. He pulled one out and handed it to Gant, along with a leather case holding a silver shield. Gant checked the card. It had his photo and indicated he worked for the National Security Agency.

  “Who are you people?” Golden demanded.

  Bailey handed her a similar leather case with an official looking card with her photo and a shield. “You are now officially a consultant to the National Security Agency.”

  “So you’re NSA?” Golden pressed.

  Bailey shook his head. “As I said, we’re with the Cellar.”

  “And the Cellar isn’t the NSA?”

  “No,” Bailey said.

  Gant could tell Golden was getting frustrated. “So what is the Cellar? Who does it work for? Why pretend to be NSA?”

  Gant leaned back and closed his eyes. Rest when you could was a lesson he’d learned early in his Special Forces career. He’d had the same questions as Golden years ago when he’d first been recruited by Bailey to work for the Cellar. He really didn’t know that much more after all that time. And Tony, his brother. How much more had he known? Tony had already worked for the Cellar for several years before they came calling for Jack. And by that time, Tony had ‘retired’ from the organization, disappearing with Neeley. Jack had always wondered what leverage his brother had had to allow him to escape the Cellar’s clutches. And why had Bailey dug his brother’s grave up?

  “The Cellar,” Bailey began, “was formed by presidential decree in 1947. Have you ever heard of Majestic-12?”

  “The alien thing?” Golden asked. “Roswell? Area 51?”

  “Disinformation,” Bailey said succinctly. “Majestic-12 was a group formed by President Truman after the Second World War to bridge the gap between domestic and international security and intelligence and, in reality, be an overseeing agency. As you know the FBI is responsible for domestic crime and intelligence and the CIA for international intelligence. Then you have the military and their various covert units and intelligence services. And the National Security Agency. The alphabet soup of federal agencies with very little coordination. The Cellar was the part of Majestic that was formed to police all those agencies.”

  “The cops for the cops,” Golden summarized.

  “Roughly,” Bailey agreed.

  “How come I’ve never heard of it?” she asked.

  Bailey stared at her with a blank face. “We do not advertise our presence. Only those who have a need to know are aware of the Cellar’s existence.”

  “What legal powers does the Cellar have?”

  Gant perked up slightly, waiting for the answer to Golden’s question, one he himself had never asked. He realized that coming from the Army, he had just fit into the Cellar’s domain without much question. Of course, when he’d been recruited, he hadn’t been in the mood or place to ask questions.

  Bailey seemed to be considering how to answer. “The Cellar exists under a direct Presidential order. It operates outside of what you would consider the law. It is a law unto itself and unto those in the covert world cross the line into activities harmful to our country and its citizens.”

  “So it’s illegal?” Golden summed up.

  “You’re not listening,” Bailey said. “It is not possible to apply common law, whether Federal or local, to those we hunt.”

  “Not possible or not prudent?” Golden asked.

  Gant almost enjoyed watching Bailey get grilled. Nero’s right hand man, Bailey was rarely ever challenged.

  “Both,” Bailey said. “Sometimes the transgressions involve classified operations. In all cases they involve people with security clearances. Additionally, it would not be smart to put on trial or incarcerate these types of personnel. Yes, the publicity would not be good, but most prisons would have a hard time holding people trained to get out of prisons.”

  Gant remembered his own SERE — survival, evasion, resistance and escape — training at Fort Bragg years ago. He knew that Golden couldn’t envision all the training these people went through and why that made them so extremely dangerous if they went rogue.

  Apparently Bailey also felt the same. He leaned forward toward the woman. “Doctor Golden, you need to appreciate that we are talking about people — and an environment — that is very different from who the normal citizen is and what they experience in day to day life.”

  Gant thought the most interesting aspect of this conversation was what Bailey wasn’t telling her. He also thought it intriguing that as far as he knew, Golden had yet to ask why she had been brought in on this. He could feel the air pressure changing and the plane slowing. Silence reigned once more as they landed in Maryland. A military Bell Jet Ranger helicopter was waiting for them, blades already turning to take them to Fort Meade and the Cellar.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The first thing Emily noticed was that the van was not moving. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but she thought she had been given another shot sometime during the drive. Everything from the bar parking lot to this moment was a blur. She knew there were things she had wanted to remember, but her mind seemed to be a muddled canvas of sounds and smells and bumps. The only consistent feeling was the fear and she did not like that all. The fear was making her weak and she couldn’t afford to be weak.

  She wondered how long the van had been stopped. As if in answer to her thought, the door began to slide open. She could see nothing. Rough hands grabbed her and started pulling her toward the door. She had planned to fight, but her limbs felt useless, and beyond her control. She could do nothing, but allow herself to be lifted like a baby, out of the van.

  She immediately felt the cooler air. She had worn only a short skirt and sleeveless top since she had only planned for a night of sweaty dancing. She couldn’t tell if her thin denim shirt was still tied around her waist. She remembered knotting it when the bar had become impossibly warm. She thought it must be daylight because even though the air was cool, she could feel heat on her bare skin.

  The man was very strong. He seemed to have no difficulty carrying her. At first she thought he would set her down as soon as he took her from the van. Instead he seemed to be walking somewhere with her.

  Emily suddenly became terrified that he was carrying her to the edge of a cliff. What if he just extended her over space and let go? Tied as she was she could do nothing, but squirm in his arms. Then she began to scream. The screaming must have affected him, because suddenly she felt him bend down and dump her to the ground. She fell painfully onto her tied wrists and began to cry. She was thirsty and exhausted. She was ready to face whatever this freak had in mind. She just wanted to be left alone.

  He pushed her head toward her chest and began to fiddle with the blindfold. Suddenly it was off, and she clamped her eyes shut as the sunlight painfully hit her sensitive eyes. It took a few moments for her to tentatively try to lift her eyelids. When she did, she looked around. She was in a forest; a thick forest, by the look of it. Her abductor had dumped her in a little clearing made by the collapse of a couple of the older trees. He was standing behind her, and she almost couldn’t turn her head to look. She knew enough about men like him to guess that her death was probably immanent.

  When she did turn, she was surprised. He was
wearing a baklava. His entire head was covered in black, except his eyes and a cruel-looking slit for his mouth. He looked huge and terrifying, but Emily suddenly felt a flash of hope. He was keeping his face covered; that must mean something.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Her voice surprised her. It was a harsh rasp.

  He said nothing. He merely pulled a short lead that you would use to train a dog from his pocket, and fastened it around her neck. Silently, he began pulling, indicating she should follow. Emily tried to get up. She had been drugged for hours, if not days. She felt dizzy with panic and dehydration. He tried to pull her to her feet again, but she simply couldn’t move. He kept pulling.

  “I can’t. I can’t get up. I need something to drink. I’m going to be sick if you don’t stop pulling me.” She felt the lead go slack. Relieved, she let her body drop back to the ground.

  He was carrying a large backpack, which Emily had tried to ignore. She hated to think what it contained. Now, he bent to pull it off. She watched powerful muscles move under his shirt and as he crouched over the pack she noticed the same strength in his legs. He bent over and began rummaging.

  Her jacket was still tied around her waist. For some reason that made her happy. Then she remembered the ID in her pocket. She hated carrying a purse into a bar, so she kept it minimal with ID and a lipstick. The lipstick and ID should be in the pocket of her skirt. She reached behind her as if to push herself up. She knew it was risky, but she had to take the chance. Emily slowly pulled her driver’s license from her back pocket and dropped it. She scooted back and hoped it was hidden.

  He was holding a bottle of water and motioned for her to take some. She was desperate to drink. He let her have only a little and when she seemed all right he gave her some more. Evidently her capturer didn’t want her sick.

  She sat for a few minutes, and when the lead again grew tight around her neck she attempted to stand up. She was wobbly, but she managed to get to her feet. As soon as she was up he pulled and she began to follow. “You know it’s going to be really hard for me to walk with my hands tied around my back, if you’re going to pull me. I can’t keep my balance.”