“These men are good.”
“Not good enough, damn it!”
Berger sighed. “She can’t have gone far. We have someone watching her place, the school.”
“Then find her. Don’t bring her in, just find her and don’t lose her again.”
“We’re working on it. But Philippa and I agree, we can’t wait any longer or this is all going to come down on our heads. The director is a liability, he’s at the breaking point and I can’t predict what he’ll do. We’ve put too much pressure on him, and he didn’t like bringing Chambers into this in the first place. / didn’t like it either, to be honest.”
“It was necessary for personal reasons. Everything we know confirms our decision. She has the family history with her brother, DNA testing was a match, and the results speak for themselves. They’ve made the connection and it’s strong enough to bear weight.”
“That’s your call. We have what we want.”
“Good. There are other endings available to us, if Jess doesn’t work out. You understand what I mean?”
“They’ll arrive by helicopter shortly.”
“Good. When you go in, you’ve got to be careful. You know what you’re up against. The girl is agitated and we don’t have her completely contained, whatever you and Cruz say about this new drug. When you move, tell Evan he’s done and that we’re pulling his funding.”
“He won’t like that.”
“Of course he won’t like it. That’s the point. If he’s riled up, it will look worse for him. If you can break him, go ahead. He’s got to be the fall guy for this.”
Dr. Jean Shelley looked out her window. The hummingbirds were back, hovering just beyond the glass. The sight soothed her. Then why did she feel unsettled, as if there were something she should understand, something she should remember, but could not?
It was probably the sickness at work in her brain. She could feel it coursing through her veins, carrying the killer cells to the farthest points in her body. Microscopic invaders sent to undo her from within. She did not have long now, and she was burning alive.
Where would Jess Chambers go?
When she really thought about it, the answer seemed so obvious she couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to her until now.
“You know what she’ll do,” Shelley said into the phone. The voice on the other end seemed like a million miles away. “She won’t wait. She’ll come back for the girl.”
“Then we’ll spot her.”
This was it; one way or another, this was the end of a very long road.
“That’s what we want. It’s time now. Everyone has to be on alert. Put the wheels in motion.”
And please, don’t let me down.
STAGE THREE
—33—
The Sikorsky S-76 helicopter lifted off from the private airfield at 3:45 p.m. central time. On board were eight men in full attack gear: STRIKE DOAV Vests, black UnderArmour moisture-wicking T-shirts, goggles, radio, combat boots, Hell-storm Python Light Rappel gloves, and M9 pistols. Four carried specially modified M4 assault rifles with dart rounds. One of them held something considerably more dangerous.
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.