It had been anticipated that someone would be putting the pieces together of the various deaths and kidnappings. That was why the Security had immediately come back here after leaving Alabama. He’d already prepared for this possibility several weeks earlier during their mission preparation Isolation phase of this operation. However, it had not been anticipated that the response would be this quick. The call from the Sniper warning him that Foley’s name had already come up had been a surprise. It meant the timeline of the entire operation needed to be accelerated.
The fact the target had run to the country farm-house was good and had been anticipated, indeed predicted. The guards were an obstacle but not a major one as they were poorly trained guards, thinking having a show of weaponry was a deterrent. So that was good. It meant that whoever had put these pieces together was severely under-estimating the threat.
The Security was in the front seat of an old mail delivery truck he had stolen six weeks earlier. He’d kept it hidden in an abandoned barn further out in the country while he made modifications to it and once the target and his wife went to ground he’d retrieved it and driven here. The windshield he was looking through was double-thick bullet-proof glass and tinted so that someone on the outside could not see in. The interior walls were lined with bullet-proof and blast resistant Kevlar blankets. The dirt bike was in the back, held in place by nylon tie down straps and facing the back doors. There were other special modifications, which had called upon his training as a Special Forces demolitions expert, all of which would come into play very soon.
The Security pulled out his one-time pad and turned to the current day. Then, using a tri-graph and the message he’d written, he combined the letters to put it in a text format that was unbreakable by anyone except the owner of the only other version of the pad. He punched the letters into his cell-phone. When the message was done he paused. Once he sent it, the clock was ticking and he had to go through with his mission. Up until now they had had the luxury of operating on their own time schedule. Now they had to move faster to stay ahead. There was always a danger in moving fast.
He reached up and felt the striated skin of his face. He remembered coming to consciousness and feeling the pain of the initial wounds from the Claymore mine. Then the ongoing agony of the varying, but non-stop tortures inflicted on them by their captors. He looked down at his ankles where he had worn the heavy iron shackle for over eight months. The skin around both ankles was now callused and rough and had remained so despite four months since the shackles had been removed. Worst of all had been the constant threat of death at any moment. There had even been mock executions to the point where any hope of living had left him.
Once you ‘died’ like that so many times, the only thing left powerful enough to keep you clinging on to life was hate. A hatred so deep and dark that only those who had been to a hell on Earth could understand it. It had been a hate that had bound the three of them together stronger than any love could. By accepting they were already dead they had managed to survive, and by embracing their hatred they had generated the energy and wit to escape. It had sustained them on their secretive return to the United States and the months of planning and preparation for this final mission.
The Security hit the send.
Emily had the dog’s head on the ground in front of her. The smell was disgusting, the sight only slightly less so. She had it facing away so she didn’t have to see the dead eyes, but that left the severed neck facing her, cut bone and tendrils of flesh exposed.
She brushed away the incessant flies and controlled her revulsion as she looked for any meat on it that she could eat. She tentatively reached out and touched the top of the skull and all she felt was bone. The dog had been starving, that was apparent even by just having the head.
“Fuck it,” Emily said to herself. She picked the head up and threw it with all her might away from her.
She would not descend to that level.
Yet, the word echoed in her mind.
Neeley could barely hear the chopper behind her. She knew it was far enough away not to be heard at the farm-house or by the State Department security man. Or by whoever was in the old mail-truck that was parked in the far wood-line, hidden in the trees and shadows. She’d spotted the truck within a half-hour of settling in to her over-watch position. It was parked in the far wood-line in such a way that it couldn’t be seen from the farm-house or barn area but a corner of it was visible from her higher position.
She’d contemplated going over there to check on it, but that would have required a long trek, looping around the entire area to stay under cover. And there was the possibility one of the bad guys was in the truck and could take action while she was moving. Plus, she was supposed to link up with the reinforcements coming in from the Cellar. Better to over-watch with the rifle.
There was the even stronger possibility that the truck was the State Department or some other government agency trying to build redundancy into the protection. Neeley had heard enough of Gant’s stories to know that government bureaucracy was often the most dangerous enemy of all. She had called it in to the Cellar and was waiting for word back.
She’d read the information on the PDA and now understood who she was watching and why. And who the potential threats were. She was dealing with men who were professionals in the art of war and killing. They were killing innocents in their thirst for vengeance, which meant they had crossed a line into a darkness few could comprehend. Neeley realized that they had felt abandoned and betrayed on their mission into Colombia, but to her their response was beyond comprehension. Of course, what had happened to them in the time they had gone missing until now, was a big unknown. There was even the possibility they had been turned and now were working with the drug cartel.
The sound of the chopper faded and she split her attention between the farm-house, the mail truck and looking over her shoulder for her support from the Cellar. Her mind kept going back to Gant’s — her Gant, Tony’s — face. He’d saved her life when she was still a teenager and then in a way took her life from that day onward. And now he was still a presence because she knew she would not be here with a sniper rifle if it weren’t for his past connections with the Cellar.
She heard a woman’s voice raised in complaint and looked over her shoulder once more. A man and a woman were coming up the ridge, the man in the lead, a sub-machinegun at the ready, his eyes and the weapon doing sweeps back and forth in concert. He wore black fatigues and a combat vest. And the woman struggling to keep up with him and appearing none-too-happy about the traipse through the woods. Nor was she dressed for being outdoors in her long slacks and blouse.
Neeley raised an arm to indicate her position and the man spotted her right away. And then she saw his face and felt a charge run through her body. It was Tony — how Tony had looked when he was healthy. If she hadn’t buried her lover herself, watched the cancer eat him down to the bone, she would have sworn it was him. But she knew it was Jack Gant, the twin brother she had never met.
Neeley scooted back slightly from her over-watch position, putting the top of the ridge between her and the target so she could greet them.
Gant lowered the sub-machinegun and stuck out his hand. “Jack Gant.”
“I’m Neeley.”
“I know.”
The two stared at each other, their gaze only broken when the woman arrived and Neeley realized there was another presence.
Gant introduced the woman. “And this is Doctor Golden.”
Neeley shook her hand. “Doctor of what?”