“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 some 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.