Neeley agreed. “And that plan might be more bloody than their original one.”
Gant nodded. “When we did our go-to-shit plan, it was always so that even if only one person survived the team’s mission would be accomplished.” He looked at Golden. “Once we find out what happened in Colombia, you need to re-evaluate your predictive model based on the fact that our targets are Special Operators. They’re going to push the envelope of everything you’ve ever researched.” Gant’s eyes lost their focus slightly as he remembered. “I’ve done Sanctions before. There’s a reason the Cellar exists. The normal police can’t deal with this type of killer. And your normal predictive models aren’t going to be able to deal with them either.”
Golden nodded. “I’ll do that. I’ll adjust.”
“We have to be prepared for the worst,” Gant said.
Because Talladega was a National Forest, the FBI had no trouble taking charge of the search for Emily Cranston. They’d suborned the local forest rangers and the nearby sheriff’s departments to their operation. By the time Mister Bailey arrived, the search was well under way and consisted of over three hundred men and women along with three helicopters. Of course, all they were working on was the information that some psycho had kidnapped a girl and was holding her somewhere in the Park.
Bailey entered the field command post, which was set up in the Park Ranger Headquarters. For a minute he stood in the back of the room, watching the hustle and bustle of people on a mission. He unwrapped a piece of gum and popped it in his mouth. He saw the grid lines drawn on the map of the park that was tacked to the wall and knew the FBI was playing it by the book.
Bailey shook his head and it must have been the movement that caught the attention of a distinguished looking, white-haired woman who apparently was in charge. She strode across the room, the other agents parting way for her, until she was right in front of Bailey. “You’re the man I was called about from Washington?”
Bailey nodded.
“I’m Special Agent in Charge Bateman.” She wasted no time indicating she didn’t like the idea of oversight, even though she had no clue who the overseer was. Nero’s missives to various agencies rarely went over well, although they did go over. “And you don’t like something we’re doing?”
“Who’s the most experienced Park Ranger?” Bailey asked. “The one who knows the park the best?”
Special Agent in Charge Bateman turned and crooked a finger. A wizened little old man in a rumpled Park Ranger uniform and a battered Smoky-The-Bear hat ambled over. “Yes, sir?”
“Any old stone chimneys in the Park?” Bailey asked. He could see Bateman’s frown turn to anger as she realized information had been withheld. A couple of hours wouldn’t make any difference for Emily Cranston, Nero had argued, and he wanted Bailey on scene when they found the cache spot. The others could mess the scene up. Plus, there was the possibility the Sniper — Forten — was on site.
Bailey had received the report on what had happened at the farm-house and knew they had taken down one-third of the targets. There was a good chance another third was located here and could be taken out. He estimated the probability of finding Emily Cranston alive here to be rather low so he did not consider that an issue to be factored into the plan.
The old Ranger frowned in thought. “Yah. There’s some old log cabins that pre-dated the establishment of the National Forest here and there throughout the Park. Most have gone to seed, rotted out. Only thing left of most of ‘em is the chimney. Made them chimneys good in the old days.”
“How many and where?” Bailey asked.
The Ranger walked over to the map. “There was a logging camp here. Small cluster of chimneys in the spot.”
“A single chimney,” Bailey said, knowing that the immediate reference point had to be exact. “And it might be near the intersections of Routes 219 and 183.”
The Ranger stared at the map while he tried to remember. Meanwhile, Bateman placed herself in front of Bailey. “You’ve withheld information.” She said it as a fact.
Bailey popped his gum. “Just learned it myself,” he lied.
“Who the hell are you?” Bateman demanded.
“You have your orders,” Bailey said.
“And I follow them,” Bateman said, “but not blindly. Who are you? What agency are you with?”
Bailey noted that the other agents in the room had become still, trying to hear. The Ranger was still staring at the map, but even his head was cocked toward the two of them, trying to listen in. This was the part of the job that simply tired Bailey out. Turf wars and people concerned with their careers. He leaned forward, his mouth just inches from Bateman’s ear and whispered.
“I’m with the Cellar.”
He had to give her credit. The only obvious reaction — and it wasn’t that obvious — was her face got pale. She took a slight step back and nodded ever so slightly. “All right then.”
Bailey knew that she had little idea what the Cellar really was — no one outside of it did. But he also knew she’d heard the whispers and the rumors. And she appeared to be smart enough to realize that rumors sometimes never equaled the truth.
The other agents exchanged puzzled glances, wondering what had been said. The Park Ranger reached toward the map with a gnarled finger. “Here. There’s a stone chimney all by its self. Not easy to find if you didn’t know it was there. Mostly overgrown with vines. But it’s only about a half mile from the intersection of those two roads.”
Bailey looked at the map. He reached over to a nearby desk and grabbed an index card. He placed it against the distance scale on the bottom of the map, ticked off a smidge more than two-hundred meters then placed it on the map, swinging it around to an approximation of two-hundred and seventy-four degrees. He marked that spot.
“Know that place?”
The Ranger stared at it. “Small clearing. There’s a big old oak tree in the middle.”
“That’s it,” Bailey said to Bateman. “There’s a good chance the target — perp — is in the area watching the girl. She’s most likely chained to the tree. It could be an ambush. The perp is a trained sniper. Also has access to mines and explosives.”
“Jesus,” Batemen muttered. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“Might be two guys,” Bailey said, adding to her dilemma. “But most likely just one.” He paused. “They’re former Special Operations.”
Bateman nodded. Then she turned to her agents and began barking out orders. She ended with: “Let’s get the girl!” Within seconds the room was clear except for Bailey, Bateman and the old Ranger.
“I’ve got a chopper inbound,” Bateman said. “We can be there in five minutes, but I’m letting the HRT team go in first. They’re already airborne and en route.”
Bailey nodded. The Hostage Rescue Team was a good idea. Well-trained and as good as any domestic police force could field. Hell, they were trained by Special Operations people and had lots of real world experience.
Against civilian criminals, Bailey realized.
He followed Bateman out to the parking lot as a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter landed. They climbed in the back. As the chopper lifted, Bailey looked back at the building and saw the old Ranger standing in the doorway, staring back at him. Just before they cleared the trees around the lot, Bailey saw the old man turn away.
The chopper banked and the building was out of sight. Bailey was experiencing an unusual feeling of discomfort and he couldn’t quite place the reason why.