It bounced off the plank and back toward her once more.
“Fuck,” Emily hissed.
Angry, she flung the shoe back at the notch, the sleeve in her hand ripping free. Emily froze as the shoe went over the top of the tank, her eyes focused on the shirt, fearing to see it disappear with the shoe.
But the shirt hung down the inside, the sleeve she’d lost within reach. She took it in her hand. The shirt was about three inches to the right of the notch. She tugged slightly, pulling to her left. The material moved an inch. She tugged again. Another inch. One more time and the shirt slid into the notch.
Holding her breath, Emily slowly pulled on the sleeve. The shirt slid smoothly through the notch until it suddenly came to a halt. Emily knew the shoe was just on the other side now. She allowed herself several shallow breaths.
Emily wrapped the sleeve around both hands and slowly shifted her weight from her feet to her arms. The shirt/shoe combination held as she put more and more weight on it. She felt the strain build in her arms as she held tighter and tighter. Hands shaking, she bent her knees and lifted her feet an inch off the ground.
It held.
She put her feet back on the ground and released the pressure as she caught her breath.
Now the question was: could she make the climb?
“Hammer, this is Falcon.” Golden released the transmit button and Neeley leaned close to her.
“Say, ‘over’, when you’re done sending.”
Golden belatedly hit the transmit and barked: “Over.”
All Neeley could hear was static on the FM channel that Bailey had been given by Finley. “Again,” she said to Golden.
“Hammer, this is Falcon. Over.”
The static was broken. “You’re not Falcon, but that’s all right, because I’m not Hammer.” The voice was calm and matter-of-fact.
“Put Hammer on please,” Golden said. “Over.”
“Put Falcon on. I assume he’s coming to get his little girl. After all, he’s killed for her already.”
“You don’t need to talk to Colonel Cranston,” Golden said. “You just need to see him. And the others. Over.”
“Who are you?” Finley asked.
Neeley nodded. Golden was drawing him in, engaging him. The co-pilot in the front of the chopper held up five fingers, indicating they were five minutes from the town.
“My name is Doctor Golden. I’m a psychiatrist. Over.”
There was a weird sound in reply and Neeley realized Finley was laughing. “You going to give me therapy, doc?”
“We want proof of life,” Golden demanded. “Put Emily on. Over.”
“Emily’s not next to me either,” Finley said. “We bought off on your proof of death at Fort Meade. Took your word for it. So take our word she’s alive.”
“Is she in the area?” Golden pressed.
“Oh, she’s around,” Finley said with a laugh.
The co-pilot held up four fingers. Neeley unbuckled her seat belt and grabbed a harness off a hook. She buckled it on as Golden continued to engage Finley in conversation. Neeley then tethered the harness to a bolt in the floor of the cargo bay. She opened up a long case and pulled out her sniper rifle. Then she slid over to the left side of the chopper and slid the door open, taking a seat on the floor, legs dangling. She tightened the tether to make sure the limit of her movement would keep her from sliding off, and then looked about the wind from the blades above her buffeting her skin.
The sun was rising in the east. It was the cusp between night and day. She switched frequencies tuning out Golden’s psychobabble with Finley and tuning in the tactical frequency they’d agreed on.
“Gant?” She asked. “You there?”
Gant was standing at the edge of the open ramp, being whipped by the air swirling in the cargo bay. “I hear you,” he replied. “Wait one. Over.”
The light in the tail of the plane turned green and Gant stepped off the ramp, freefalling at ten thousand feet above the ground. He spread his arms and legs, arcing his back, and stabilized. He waited a few seconds, then grabbed the rip cord and opened his chute.
The opening shock pulled him upright and took his breath away. He reached up and grabbed the toggles, gaining control of the canopy. He checked the data board on top of his reserve chute and checked his altitude and location.
“Neeley? I’m airborne now. Eight thousand feet AGL and on track for the town.”
“We’re three minutes out,” Neeley said. “Golden is talking to Finley. He said that Forten isn’t with him. Nor is the girl.”
“They’re dispersed for an ambush,” Gant said.
“Duh.”
Gant smiled grimly. “See you on the ground.”
“I hope so.”
Emily had her feet against the wood and her hands tight around the shirt as she pulled herself up another couple of inches. Her arms felt like they would rip right out of their sockets, her muscles were vibrating in protest, but she slid one hand up a few inches, then the other, then her feet one at a time.
She was breathing hard but didn’t care. Not much further. The top of the wood was close, damn close, but still out of reach. Emily was so tired, in so much pain, that not any one specific part of her body took precedence. It all hurt.
Two more inches. Emily held still panting, as she desperately glared at the lip of the tank. It looked close enough, but if she reached and missed.
She couldn’t think about failure.
Then she heard a sound. Cloth tearing.
No time.
She bent her knees slightly, then pushed up as hard as she could as she let go of the shirt with her right hand and clawed for the top of the wood. Her fingers hooked over and she held on, even as the shirt in her left hand tore away. Ignoring the pain, she slammed her left hand onto the wood, scrabbling for the edge. Her fingers clawed over it and she was hanging by both hands.
“Fuck,” she hissed. No way she could pull herself up to get a leg over. No way.
Then she heard the distinctive sound of a helicopter.
“Number one,” Bailey called out.
The CIA’s Director of Operations glared at him as the chopper’s wheels touched down with a light bounce on the main street of the ghost town. Neeley shifted her attention back to the scope on the rifle. There was just enough light now to be able to see. She had the tactical frequency now in her left ear and Golden’s freq with Finley in her right.
Bailey grabbed the Director and tossed him out of the chopper onto the broken tar of the street and the helicopter immediately lifted.
Golden’s voice was matter of fact. “The Director of Operations is on the ground.”
“What the fuck is that?” Finley snarled. “Chinese takeout?”
“First course,” Golden said and her voice was so cold Neeley glanced at the woman sitting there with her laptop still open.
Gant was at five thousand feet and now could see the layout of the town. Rail-line to the south. Large factory building to the east. He also could see the chopper pulling back after making its deposit.
Neeley saw the Director of Operations start running, dashing toward the buildings on the left side of the street when his body was slammed hard to the tarmac. She shifted the rifle, knowing the bullet had to have come from the other side of the street and further away.
Emily heard the shot. She pulled upward with all her strength and swung her right leg in an arc toward the top. Her chin reached the top, her heel hooked over it and she continued with the momentum.
Her calf slid over the top, her thigh. Her hands bled as she pulled with all her strength and then she was on top, straddling the top of the wood planks. Emily leaned forward, placing her head down on the thin wood and breathe deeply, not daring yet to see what her next challenge was.