“Any tags on his file?” Gant asked.
“’Tags’?” Golden repeated.
“Roberts told us Finley was dirty,” Gant reminded her. “A tag is a classified note on the file indicating what that might be.”
“None,” Golden said.
Gant frowned. “That doesn’t add up with what Roberts told us.”
Neeley spoke up. “Maybe they kept it in house.”
“Roberts is CIA,” Gant said. “Finley was DEA. If the CIA suspected Finley was dirty, there would be a tag in the Cellar’s records.”
“Perhaps Mister Roberts was not telling the truth,” Nero said.
Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place for Gant. “So everyone was fucking everyone down there. Roberts and the CIA gave up Finley, who was just doing his job. Then they gave up the team, which was just doing its job because of a bureaucratic screw-up. The bottom line is I think we’re back up to three targets, not down to two. I think Finley is still alive.”
Emily listened to the rumble impatiently, wishing it would grow closer, much like the trains that rattled by. Thunder. A sound many feared but to Emily sounded as sweet as anything she’d ever heard. The dark sky above her flickered with distant lightning and Emily began to count each time she saw it. The time lag between the light and the thunder gave her an idea how close the storm was.
She’s spotted the wisps of storm clouds earlier — the cause of her smile. She’d lain on her back, watching the sky darkness as the clouds thickened.
There was a flash close by, followed less than two seconds later by thunder. Without conscious thought, Emily’s tongue slid out of her parched mouth and across her cracked lips. She could taste the moisture carried by the wind. Her entire body was vibrating, even her skin sensing the dampness in the air.
The first drop hit her in the middle of her forehead.
From inside the helicopter Gant saw the stooped over figure waiting for them, silhouetted by the bright landing lights on top of CIA headquarters. Gant slid open the side door of the Blackhawk helicopter but didn’t get out. He glanced across the cargo bay at his new partner. Neeley wore a long black leather coat. She had a sniper rifle secured to the inside of it with Velcro stays. He knew she had body armor on underneath the black turtleneck she wore. Golden sat next to her, silent, her taut face reflected in the glow from the screen of her laptop computer. Gant had no idea what she was doing.
Roberts climbed into the chopper and Gant leaned around him, sliding the door shut. It was loud in the back of the helicopter as it lifted off and Gant extended a set of headphones with boom mike to Roberts, similar to what he, Golden and Neeley were wearing.
“We’re on a private channel,” Gant informed Roberts as soon as he had his set on. “Pilots can’t hear us.”
Roberts nodded. “I got the message. I don’t see the point of hiding me some place.”
On the flight here, Golden had told Gant to expect this — a death wish. “I don’t much see the point either.” He could smell the alcohol coming off of Roberts. He hadn’t just been sitting in his office working this late at night.
That stopped conversation for a little while as the Blackhawk flew through the night sky, the pilots dark figures in front with night vision goggles covering their faces, making them almost seem to be part of the machine rather than masters of the machine. Gant saw Neeley lean back, her long legs encased in dark pants, black leather boots sliding along the metal floor then up on to the canvas seat right next to Roberts, invading his space.
“Where are we going?” Roberts finally asked, glancing from Neeley back to Gant.
“Fort Meade,” Gant answered. “A secure site on post.”
“Just me?” Roberts asked.
Gant knew the man wasn’t stupid. “No. The others whose families were targeted will be there also.”
Roberts nodded and slumped back in the canvas seat, whatever little energy he had draining out of him. Gant found that an odd reaction for someone whose life they were saving.
“You lied to us.” Neeley said it in a low voice, her body not moving in the slightest.
Roberts twitched. “I didn’t—“
Neeley’s boots slammed down on the floor with a thud they could hear even through the headsets. “’And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.’ John, verse eight, line thirty-two. It’s inscribed right there in your own CIA museum. Kind of a joke don’t you think consider your stock and trade is lying.”
“I told you what you asked,” Roberts said.
“So it was our fault,” Neeley said. “We just didn’t ask the right questions? Is that it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Bullshit. Some of the things you told us were flat out lies or at best, withholding of the truth.”
“Such as?” Roberts shot back.
Gant had his hand on the butt of his Glock. He didn’t think Roberts would get violent but one never knew. He glanced at Golden and her attention was no longer on her laptop. She was watching Roberts very carefully.
“The DEA agent who you gave up to the Cartel,” Neeley said. “Who you betrayed. He wasn’t dirty, was he?”
“They’re all dirty down there,” Roberts said. “Everyone knows that. Too much money not to be.”
“So you were dirty?” Gant snapped.
“What?” Roberts was confused, whether by the question or the switch in interrogators, Gant didn’t know, nor did he care.
“You worked Central and South America. The nexus of the drug trafficking world. You’re a government employee. GS-whatever the fuck level you are. Not like you’re making that much more money than Finley did. So by your logic you have to be dirty too.”
He could see Roberts’ head snap up at the name. “I wasn’t dirty.”
Neeley leaned forward. “You don’t call setting up a United States government agent to be tortured and killed by drug dealers being dirty?”
“He was taking money—“
Neeley didn’t back off. “So you had him tortured and killed by some of the worst scum to walk the face of the planet? That puts you on such a moral pedestal. And what proof did you have that he was dirty? We haven’t been able to find anything — no tags on his classified files— and the Cellar knows everything that goes between agencies. If the CIA suspected a DEA agent of being dirty, there’d be a tag. Or else you — and those who you worked with — violated the most basic principle of covert operations. So you’re full of shit.”
Gant tapped Roberts on the shoulder startling him. “Finley’s not dead, is he?”
Roberts eyes grew wide. “Yes, he is. The Cartel got him.”
“But there was no body, right?” Gant asked. “You just assumed he was dead. Just like Cranston assumed the three Special Forces guys were dead. Well, as we know now, they aren’t, so maybe Finley isn’t either.”
Roberts rubbed a hand across his forehead and closed his eyes. Gant could see it was shaking. Roberts was in much worse shape than he’d realized. Gant knew the loss of his daughter was terrible, but Roberts was— Gant stopped and considered the sequence of events. Only two kidnappings and caches.
He turned to Neeley and held up three fingers, indicating for her to switch intercom channels. He could see Golden trying to figure out what he meant so he held up the switch on his wire in a place where Roberts couldn’t see it. As soon as both women switched channels, he spoke.
“Roberts and Cranston. They have something in common in the pattern. Both daughters cached. Roberts’ daughter had been out there so long she’d died. Cranston’s daughter is dying. On the others, it had been a straight kill.”
Neeley nodded. “Yes. So?”
“These guys haven’t done anything randomly or without reason,” Gant said. “So why the two girls cached?”