The van’s headlights illuminated a lakeside cabin. Beyond the cabin, a hundred foot dock stretched out over the water and a small floatplane was moored at the end. Just another piece in the elaborate plan they had spent months putting together.
Inside the cabin was another part of the plan and the Sniper was slightly concerned about the Spotter’s reaction to what had to be done now. They had delayed this as long as possible, the Spotter arguing that it was the prudent thing, but the Sniper had his doubts about his partner’s sincerity. The Sniper missed his Security man, a person he knew he could count on. In Colombia, it had been the Spotter who had broken first under the torture. Of course, they had all broken eventually.
The Sniper brought the van to a halt right in front of the cabin. He opened the door and got out. He waited as the Spotter hesitated, then finally exited the vehicle. The Sniper led the way to the door of the cabin and pushed it open.
“Honey, we’re home,” he called out with a smile. He noted that the Spotter didn’t appreciate his sense of humor.
“Why don’t we just go?” the Spotter asked, stopping the Sniper in his tracks, midway across the main room.
“That’s not the plan,” the Sniper said. He pointed back to the door. “Wait for me in the plane if you don’t want to be part of this.” He waited, then the Spotter nodded.
“Let’s do it.”
The Sniper walked across the main room and threw open a door. A foul smell wafted out of the bedroom. The Spotter’s wife was tied to the bed, arms together over her head, ankles bound together with a rope. Since they’d left her here she had fouled herself, contributing to the smell. But the main source of the stink was the body slumped in a chair at the foot of the bed.
The Spotter had had no problem putting a bullet through the head of the man his wife had married less than six months after he’d been declared dead. Who his wife had taken into his bed while he was being tortured and threatened with death every day.
The Sniper walked to the head of the bed and looked down at the woman. There was a gag tied tightly around her head and she stared up with wild eyes. Forty-eight hours tied here with no food or water, the body of her new husband sharing the room — the Sniper has no sympathy for her. It was nothing compared to what they had suffered in Colombia.
“You should have waited for him,” the Sniper said.
The woman nodded furiously. The Sniper laughed. “Too late.” His hand was reaching for his pistol when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out and flipped it open. “Yes?”
He listened for almost a minute. Then just said “Roger that” and snapped the phone shut. He glanced at the door where the Spotter stood. “The next phase is in movement.” He gestured at the woman. “Do you want to do the honors?”
The woman was moaning, trying to speak through the gag. Her arms and legs were drumming on the bed, a desperate and futile attempt to do something, anything.
“Remember the pain?” The Sniper asked the Spotter. “Do you remember that stinking place where they kept us? Remember how you told us the only thing that kept you going was wanting to come home — to this? To a woman who betrayed you?”
“She thought I was dead,” the Spotter murmured.
“She should have had faith in you.” The Sniper knew this would not go the way he wanted. He drew his pistol and aimed. The Spotter still had not moved. The woman was crying. The Sniper fired once, the round hitting her right between the eyes, cutting off the crying and stopping her struggles.
“Let’s go,” he said, holstering the pistol.
Emily sat in half an inch of water. She leaned over and took a careful sip. She’d forced herself not to gorge, not to over-indulge like she had when the evil man had given her the water bottle. She had all night. The water wasn’t going anywhere. The storm had been short and fierce, pelting her with large drops and she’d reveled in it.
She felt strong, refreshed. And clean. She knew the water she sat in was not the purest and there was a faint hint of sand in it from the bottom of the cistern, but she had never tasted anything so wonderful.
Re-energized, Emily peered in the dark at the shackle around her ankle.
Now was the time.
The thought came to her unbidden, but as loudly as if someone had shouted it in her ear. It didn’t make sense practically — with the water in the cistern she was in the best condition she’d been in since being kidnapped.
But it was time.
The rain was a respite, a relief, but a false one. For the dryness would come again. And the thirst. And she would grow weaker and weaker until she wouldn’t have the strength to free herself.
It was time.
Emily took the wire she had so carefully doubled and then doubled again. She slid it into the keyhole for the shackle. She ignored the pain from the un-healed cuts from her last attempt. She went to work on her last chance for freedom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“We’re one minute out from the safe house,” Gant announced. “What’s the plan?”
Neeley was kneeling on the floor of the cargo bay, pulling an MP-5 sub-machinegun out of her kit bag. She checked a magazine of rounds, then slammed it home into the weapon, pulling the cocking lever back. Gant already had his sub-machinegun out and ready across his knees. Neeley pulled a pistol out of the bag and offered it to Golden. The doctor looked at it for a few seconds, then reached out and took it.
“You let Cranston do what he plans to do,” Masterson said.
“What?” Gant exclaimed.
“Tell him Roberts jumped,” Masterson said. “He’ll believe Doctor Golden. Once he knows that, there’s nothing to hold him back from taking out Caulkins and Lankin.”
“What’s to keep him from taking us out?” Neeley asked.
“Because you’ll tell him the Cellar has approved the sanctions of Caulkins and Lankin,” Masterson said.
“And then?”
“And then tell him the Cellar has also approved the sanctions of the CIA’s Director of Operations, Chief of Direct Action and Roberts’ brother. We’re closing this entire mess out.”
Gant had been expecting that. “And then?”
“Have Cranston call on the cell phone the targets provided him and tell them that he’ll deliver those three to wherever Emily is currently cached. You will accompany him. I have operatives out picking those three up right now and consolidating them. I’ll have their precise location to you shortly. Is this clear?”
“Yes,” Gant said.
“Neeley?” Masterson asked.
“Clear.”
“Doctor Golden?”
Gant glanced at her. She finally nodded. “Clear. But what about Colonel Cranston?”
“He will be the last one to go down,” Masterson said.
The radio went dead just as the chopper flared for landing.
Gant stood, sub-machinegun at the ready. He slid a pair of night vision goggles over his eyes and turned them on. Neeley and Golden stood behind him, their own weapons in their hands, also wearing goggles. Gant opened the cargo bay door and walked out into the small open field in front of the one story bunker-style building. There were no lights on in the building and the front door was wide open.
“No guards,” Gant noted. Behind them, the sound of the helicopter’s blades and engine began to wind down.
“Gant,” Neeley said in a very calm voice. “Don’t move.”
“What?”
“Your chest,” she said.
Gant looked down and saw a small red dot right over his heart. Even though he had a vest on, he had no doubt that the shooter had a sniper rifle with a ‘hot’ round that would punch right through.