The Special Operations team was led by Bertie McDwyer. McDwyer had served ten years with the army, in Europe and then in the Middle East during Desert Storm. He had been assigned to various bases within the United States before joining the army's school for snipers at Ft. Benning.
After graduating he had carried out several clandestine operations, neutralizing high-level targets on five separate occasions without a single complication. Now he was a killer for hire. He was known for striking fast and hard and without hesitation. He was young, strong, and experienced.
And at the moment he was scared shitless, for several reasons. McDwyer knew exactly what they were up against in this mission, even if the rest of his team did not. He didn't like the way this one was playing out.
This bothered him a great deal. Snipers were supposed to be immune from human emotions such as remorse and fear. It was a basic tenet of their training, and there was good reason for it. He had seen more than one man killed because of a split-second hesitation on the battlefield.
The helicopter banked left and slipped low under an orange sun. The glint off the chop of a small lake hit McDwyer in the eyes. He winced and glanced away. Like the reflection off the scope of a rifle. It had happened to him only once, but that was enough. A sniper, looking into the lens of another. Predator to predator, like two lions crouched in the brush. He had been first to pull, and he sometimes thought about that split-second difference. Who lived, who died, playing God in the blink of an eye.
"Listen up. Everson and Keene, put that shit away." The two men yanked iPod earbuds from their ears and shoved them into pockets. "We deploy at 1730. I will only say this once. We are to contain and provide cover for ground forces moving in on the facility. Their mission is to locate and subdue the target peaceably. We are on reserve team duty."
Boots tapped, knees bounced. Like purebred horses straining at the bit, McDwyer thought. They were some of the best available. He'd trained most of them himself. They had been told very little about this particular mission, and that was dangerous. McDwyer knew that the most mistakes were made when the team did not have all the facts. But Berger had insisted upon the highest levels of security, and could not be convinced otherwise.
"I know you want to be first in line, but you will obey my orders. A highly sensitive and dangerous subject is housed in this facility. We have strict orders to disable if necessary, but do not shoot to kill. I repeat--anyone attempting a kill shot will be terminated themselves. Permanently."
"Who's the target?"
McDwyer hesitated just long enough for them to see it in his eyes. "A juvenile female."
"Excuse me, sir?"
"Never you mind, Everson. We arc a safety net only. I do not want weapons drawn unless I give the command to move in."
"Sir--"
"I anticipate zero complications on the ground, and I sure as fuck don't expect them up here. Anyone have any problems with that? Good. We have one hour and forty minutes to deployment."
McDwyer distributed a photo and description of the target, and moved back to the front to let them sort it all out. He plopped himself down next to the pilot, a twenty-year veteran who had flown thirty missions in Desert Storm. A family man, and himself a killer of over fifteen people. Jesus, McDwyer thought. He massaged his temples with both pointer fingers. He didn't know why he was thinking about this right now.
"How's the daughter? Any news?"
McDwyer found Keene crouched near his seat. He covered his headset mike. "Keep it off-line, will you?"
"Sorry. You just looked like you could use some company."
"I shouldn't have told you a fucking thing about it."
"Nothing to be ashamed of, sir. We all make mistakes."
"It's not a mistake, Keene. It's a human being."
"Sorry. You know what I meant." Keene scratched his underarm with a gloved finger. "How old is she?"
"She'll be nine next May." McDwyer shook his head. Nine years old, and they'd never even met. The mother was a woman he'd slept with two or three times while on leave from the army, when he was only twenty-three. Barely old enough to have hair on his dick. She'd called to tell him just last week. Why now, he had no idea; maybe she was after money.
In his line of work, family meant weakness. He couldn't afford to let this get in the way. It was bad enough he'd let it slip to Keene. One too many tequila shots last night. It wasn't like him, and he wondered for just a split second whether he was having some sort of breakdown.
"I just figured I'd ask, after seeing the photo you gave out back there," Keene said. "A little girl, about the same age, I thought maybe you were having trouble getting your head around this one. I wouldn't blame you."
"That's enough." McDwyer kept his voice low and hard. "You don't know the first thing about it. Get back there and buckle in."
Keene looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded and returned to his seat. McDwyer glanced at the pilot, but the man stared straight out the windshield and made no sign that he had heard the exchange. It wasn't likely. The sound of the rotor would drown out everything but a shout.
Does Keene have a point? McDwyer didn't know what scared him worse, knowing what this little girl could do if she got away from them, or the possibility of having to line her head up in his sights and squeeze the trigger.
McDwyer had been the kill switch on this project for over a year now, but it wasn't until last week that he'd started questioning why.
The helicopter banked across a field, low enough to cause a ripple in the brush. They were less than an hour and a half away now.
McDwyer wondered, for the hundredth time, what exactly would be waiting for him when they arrived.
--34--
"Didn't think I'd see you again so soon. Your class get canceled? You forget something, maybe?" The guard's greedy eyes lingered, staring at Jess Chambers's nose, mouth, breasts, and she let him do it, let him hope that she had come back for him.
She flashed him the pass from her bag and smiled, a big, toothy grin. "Has Dr. Wasserman left yet?"
"Don't know, but he might have, I had to use the facilities. You want me to radio up?"
"No, that's all right. I'll only be a minute. I just wanted to look for an earring."
"You women are always losing stuff. Maybe when you get done, we can go get that drink. . . ."
Now comes the hard part, Jess thought, and she parked behind the hospital again and hurried to the front doors, keeping her face down and turned away from the windows. She hadn't wanted to wait for Patrick's help. A lot of this depended on luck, but she didn't want to waste another second, now that her mind was made up. God only knew what Wasserman might do to Sarah while they all sat around like career politicians trying to decide the best way to get her out.
She hoped Andre was busy elsewhere. She could only pray that her photograph hadn't been handed out to everyone who worked in the building.
She clipped her pass to her jacket and walked fast down the empty hall, listening for voices. She heard them in the playroom; it was the right time, she had timed it perfectly.
She opened the doors and studied each corner of the room. There were six or seven children in here now, and two white-shirted women who might have been counselors. It did not take her long to find Dennis, in his baseball cap and sneakers. He was standing by the bookshelves, counting the books.
She waited just a moment to harden herself for what had to be done.