The pain grew so great, Emily thought she would pass out. Then there was a click and the wire slid out of her thumb into the quarter inch of water on the floor of the cistern. Emily gasped for breath, trying to combat the pain, her mind not yet processing what the click had meant. She didn’t dare believe.
Emily put her thumb in her mouth, almost savoring the taste of the blood. She stared at the shackle. Nothing appeared different. With her free hand she reached down and grabbed it.
Nothing.
She removed the thumb from her mouth and used it on the other side of the shackle and pulled.
Nothing.
Emily felt the tears well up in her eyes once more. One last time she pulled and with a slight screech of metal giving way it opened.
Emily stared at her freed ankle in disbelief.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Blackhawk helicopter landed on the top of CIA headquarters in the midst of a massive Mexican stand-off. Mister Bailey stood to the side of the landing pad holding a gun on three men. Surrounding him were a dozen CIA agents dressed in black with automatic weapons.
“This is going to be fun,” Gant muttered as the wheels settled down and he opened the side door. He stepped out, Neeley at his side, both of them weapons at the ready.
“Good evening, Mister Gant,” Bailey called out over the noise of the chopper, seemingly unconcerned about the ring of weapons pointed at him. The three men were flex cuffed, hands behind their back, and looked decidedly unhappy at the current situation.
Bailey continued. “I tried to explain to our comrades in the Central Intelligence Agency that I am acting under the Cellar’s pre-eminent mandate. They don’t seem to be accepting that. We are awaiting the arrival of the Director himself.”
Gant stared at the three senior bureaucrats. In the harsh glare of the landing lights, their faces were pale, their normal bravado shaken. He’d ordered Cranston to stay in the chopper — no need to add him to the mixture.
The sound of the chopper lessened as the pilot went to idle. Gant checked his watch. According to the rest of the cache report they had received during Cranston’s phone call to the targets, Emily was located in north Texas. From here they were to go to the airfield and board a fast plane to get close, then board another chopper.
“This is bullshit!” One of the men cried out.
Gant walked past Bailey who was placidly chewing his gum but very alertly keeping his weapon trained on the three. “Who the fuck are you?” Gant asked.
The man drew himself up in his finely tailored suit. “I’m Hugh Stanton, Central Intelligence Agency, Director of Operations.”
Gant shrugged. “You heard of Finley? Forten? Payne? Lutz?”
Stanton took a step back. Gant looked at the other two men. “Who’s Paul Roberts?”
“I am.” He was tall, tanned, with shoulder length hair and Gant could tell right away he had not left his undercover days behind. Some never could.
“Your brother is dead,” Gant said.
“You fuckers,” Roberts snarled.
“He killed himself,” Gant said. “Threw himself out of the chopper when the truth was finally given the light of day.”
A muscle twitched on the side of Roberts’ face. Bailey popped his gum. “Calm down.” The hand holding the pistol was rock-steady.
Everyone turned as the door to roof access slammed open and a man in a finely cut suit came walking out. Gant recognized the Director of the CIA from his photos and the man looked none too pleased at the current situation.
“Who’s in charge here?” the Director demanded.
“The Cellar,” Bailey said calmly. “These three men have been seconded to the Cellar for the duration of the mission.”
“What mission?” the Director was confused.
“You don’t have a need to know,” Bailey said. He popped his gum once more. Then he spit it out, the sodden mass landing at the Director’s feet. “You may call Mister Nero if you have any questions. Do you have any questions?”
The Director’s face flushed beet red. “When will they be back?”
“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Bailey said. He wagged the gun at the three men. “Time’s a wasting gentlemen. Please board your flight. The sooner we get started, the sooner this will be over.”
The three men turned and looked at their boss. The Director shifted his feet, avoiding their eyes, then jerked his thumb to the commander of the armed guards. Sullenly, the CIA triggermen lowered their weapons and headed for the door. Gant stood aside as the three CIA men clambered on board the chopper, then he followed with Bailey and Neeley. The door was slid shut and they were airborne heading to Andrews Air Force Base to cross-load onto a waiting Combat Talon.
Emily got to her feet and slowly walked in a circle, reveling in the feeling of freedom. The leg that had been shackled felt like it could float in the air. There was just under a quarter inch of water left in the bottom of the tank and she got on all fours and lapped some of it, not even conscious of what she looked like doing this and the level to which she had been reduced.
Then she stood once more and slowly walked the outside of the tank, hands on the wood. Her initial feeling of elation began to drain out of her with each step as she felt how solid the boards were. She looked up at the lip of the tank and reached upward, her hands a good two and a half feet from the top. She squatted and jumped, barely lifting a foot off the ground in her weakened condition and when she landed, her knees buckled and she fell hard to the floor of the tank with a slight splash.
Emily lay there panting.
She’d escaped only the shackle but not the prison.
Finley stood with his arms crossed, staring down the dusty main street toward the rail line a quarter mile away on the other side of the ghost town. The water tank was visible just to the right, towering over the dilapidated train station. He was flanked by Forten and Payne, the two men carrying their duffle bags full of gear and looking somewhat tired after their recent exertions.
The town was small, the largest structure being the abandoned textile factory on the western edge. Along main street were single story brick buildings, the windows broken out. A church on the eastern side of the street dominated the entire area with its fifty-foot high bell steeple.
“She still alive?” Payne asked.
“Who cares?” Finley questioned in turn.
“Cranston wants proof of life before giving up the men he has,” Forten said.
Finley turned and looked at him. “You think Cranston is coming alone?”
“Of course not,” Forten replied. He slapped the side of his duffle bag, eliciting thud of metal on metal. “That’s why we brought the goodies. But I do think he’s bringing the men you want. And we want him. The rest—“ he shrugged— “we kill if they get in our way.”
“So how do we give them proof of life?” Forten asked.
Finley gave a cold smile. “Oh, they’ll have a chance to see her. The cache report I gave them has her right here in the middle of main street. So we’re going to have a good old-fashioned showdown.”
The three CIA men were ducks in row, seated next to each other on the starboard side of the plane, with Cranston flanking them on the right. Very unhappy ducks. Bailey had his pistol loosely held in one hand along the port side, but Gant didn’t get the feeling there was much fight left in the three men. Of course, they might do as the elder of the Roberts’ brother had done and do a dive, but that wasn’t anything he felt concerned about since the back of the plane was sealed.
For a moment, Gant paused. The thought of the Roberts’ brothers brought up an image of his own brother. He was surprised to realize that since he had started this mission he had not really thought much about his brother’s death. Or his life. Gant glanced to his right where Neeley was seated next to him. He could feel the warmth of her body and her arm pressing against his.