Bombshell - Men of Sanctuary Series, Book Three (20 page)

MacBride, if you can hear me, I need you in SEAL mode, baby. I need you in SEAL

mode, and I need you to find me quickly, or it’s all over but my eulogy.

* * * * *

Her captor had been gone for a while. By the time he returned, the devices had begun to resemble something more than piles of scrap.

“Yo, buddy, I don’t suppose you can round up something to eat. It must be at least twelve hours since you snatched me off the street, and I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. You really fucked up dinner for me. Braised medallions of duck with an orange reduction glaze, served over a bed of wild rice. Such a waste.” She sighed.

The man settled himself, stretched out in the chair, unfolded his legs to avoid wrinkling his trousers. “Sorry, but you’re quite at fault in that capacity. You left the restaurant and fell right into my arms, literally, without an escort of any sort. By the way, I neglected to tell you how much I appreciated your assistance in that endeavor.

So, the more quickly you finish the job, the more quickly you get to eat. Deal with it.”

Oh yeah, like he plans to fork over a Happy Meal after he has the devices in his hot little
hands, then release me so I can hitchhike back to Sanctuary.
“Sure, fine, okay, whatever you say, sparky. I’m just saying, hypoglycemia is setting in and my hands are getting a bit shaky.”

She selected a wire and stripped the plastic coating from both ends, held it up as an example. “Considering that you’re as close to the explosives as I am, I thought I should bring the problem to your attention.”

His posh attitude dropped. “Woman, you’re a real ball-buster. Has anyone told you that?”

“It’s been mentioned a time or two. Probably bad breeding, or at least bad upbringing. I was a deprived child. And that’s deprived, not depraved.”

He swallowed whatever else he was going to say, then slammed out of the building.

”
Ooh
, testy sort, isn’t he?”

The man returned in a few minutes with a paper sack and a pint-sized cardboard carton with a pour spout. He handed them to her.

“Thanks. I don’t suppose you have a pair of ladies’ tennis shoes tucked away somewhere, size six? If not, maybe a pair of socks. No shit, my feet are really freezing on this floor.”

From the apoplectic look on his face, Keko was sure she’d finally overstepped Captain Perfect’s patience. Instead, he left again, returning with a new pair of men’s heavy boot socks, still in the packaging.

He threw the socks at her. “Here. This is the last delay. I’m out of fucking patience, which means you’re out of fucking time.”

You mean whoever’s pulling your strings is out of patience, dirt bag
. She dragged her chain over to her chair, pulled on the socks. She nearly sighed with relief, but didn’t want to give the bad guy any recognition for performing what could be construed as a charitable act. The food came next—no lie, she was really hungry. The foil wrapper identified the cheese steak sandwich as a Hungry Bear item—it retained a smidgen of warmth; the melted cheese resembled wall spackle. The carton held lukewarm chocolate milk, probably from sitting next to the once-hot sandwich in Captain Perfect’s vehicle.

Sonofabitch, we can’t be that far from town. Okay, guys in white hats, you can rescue me
now, any time, without further ado. Please. And hurry!

Chapter Twelve

Thursday, mid-morning

Mac called in everyone he thought would be useful, anyone he trusted to be circumspect. Adam and Lucian arrived. They stayed in touch with surveillance expert Glennon Garrett by satcom link, and he had his international spider web of electronic feelers out.

Although Lucian argued with her—and Adam backed him up—Lorelei refused to remain at the lodge just because she was pregnant. Kamaka stayed by her side, not so much to protect her as to prevent her from causing mayhem.

Abigail managed to track down Bobby Black Crow. Deputy Joe Collins quietly called individuals from the roster of the Catamount Lake police force, first aid, rescuers, and firefighters.

About a dozen and a half people met behind the police department in the cavernous garage, which had been emptied of all vehicles for the purpose of their clandestine meeting.

Mac faced the gathering. “All right, people, this is the situation. We have a missing person. I am not at liberty to discuss the details, other than to say that we strongly suspect she’s been kidnapped by an unfriendly faction. She went missing at about nine o’clock last night from the employees’ parking lot behind The Woodlands.

Lucky for us, one of the kitchen staff happened to be on a cigarette break, observed Ms.

Holokai being put into a black Cadillac Escalade with Washington D.C. rental tags. We determined that lead to be solid.”

He pulled papers out of his briefcase.

“A few of us searched all night, with no results. No GPS in the Escalade, either.

So, let’s try a different approach. Here’s a list of every establishment in town. They should all be opened for business by now. Each of you, pick a section of the list. Check every single business, kiosk, storefront—I want them all covered. Quietly. No fuss.

Don’t get anyone agitated. It’s a long shot, but someone might remember something that stuck in his or her mind that maybe seemed slightly off at the time. Try to hit the known busybodies first.”

He handed the stack of lists to a firefighter, who took one, then passed them on.

“Your cover story can be that we’re doing an informal survey to see how to improve our tourist business. Take a clipboard, act at least semi-official. Tell them anything that sounds plausible, just don’t give away the mission.”

A second stack followed, copies of a color photo of Keko with all her stats. “These are for your eyes only. We don’t want questions, nor do we need folks to jump to any sort of conclusions. We don’t want to tip our hand to the bad guys, just in case.”

One of his deputies raised his hand. MacBride shook his head in response, before the question could be voiced. “I know, Lou, I know. It’s tourist season. Lots of weird stuff goes on. The problem is that we’re running out of time. Keko—Ms. Holokai—has already been missing for about twelve hours. We have reason to believe the kidnappers have not left the area. However, our window of opportunity is dwindling by the second.”

Mac checked his watch. “We’ll meet back here no later than one hour from now.

If we don’t have something by then, we probably won’t have anything at all, and we’ll need to come up with a different plan of attack.”

He turned to leave, then remembered something. “I don’t need to remind everyone not to take action on your own—if you turn up anything at all, contact me immediately. Assume we’re dealing with an individual, or a group, who will be armed and dangerous. Don’t attempt any heroics.”

He responded to Adam’s hard look. “Not that you can’t handle any bad guys, but we need intel. It’s tough to question a corpse.”

Lucian grinned at Adam’s disgruntled expression. “Hoss, he has you pegged.”

* * * * *

One hour and five minutes later, Joe Collins directed everyone’s attention to the large township map permanently affixed to the garage wall. He tapped the map with a long, rubber-tipped, wooden pointer. “Buggy Adderson’s place. It’s the only site that fits.”

Lucian looked over the entire section of Catamount Lake proper, then the site Joe indicated. “That’s not far from town at all. Are you sure?”

“Best guess, with the intel we gathered.” Joe held up the sheets everyone turned in, before they left for their sleep shifts or day jobs.

“Adderson’s old fishing camp. Buggy is currently chasing elderly ladies around the Pine Knoll Rest Home in his wheelchair. He still has the camp property, handled by a local realtor. Two weeks ago, the realtor had a single inquiry about renting the place, offered to pay a bonus if the realtor could get him situated. Fits our time frame. The camp is so far off the beaten path, you’d never find it without a map. The access road is nearly grown over, not much more than a game trail now. Buggy hasn’t used it for at least a decade, just rents it out once or twice a season.”

Adam stood. “Two questions. One, could the kidnappers get vehicles back there?

Two, can we get behind the camp to flank them?”

Game Warden Abigail O’Connell took Deputy Joe’s pointer and traced a path from the nearest main road to the site. “Yes, and yes. The access road is overgrown, but with brush, not trees. If you don’t mind scratching some paint, vehicles can make it without a problem. In its heyday, the dirt access road was actually filled in with highway stone and gravel, so it isn’t totally deteriorated. Passenger vehicles should be able to handle it. Last time I was through there, the cabins and outbuildings were moldy and falling apart, but still standing.”

“All right, so Adderson’s place is still our strongest possibility.” Mac turned.

“Bobby, can we flank them without being seen?”

Bobby Black Crow traded places with Abigail and took up the pointer. “Yep.

There are game trails here, here, and here. Boulders and thick scrub brush for cover here and here, plus heavy stands of trees. Can’t get close with any sort of full-sized vehicle, though, trees are too tight. ATVs make too much noise. Horses could get through, but I’d be worried about snorts and neighs—plus, it’ll take too long to trailer them in. Whoever goes in will be on foot for about, say, half a mile.”

Lucian hopped off the table he’d been using as a seat, snapped a smartass salute to the sheriff. “Sir, Marine scout-sniper team at your service, sir. We already grabbed our gear.”

Mac nodded. “All right. Adam and Lucian with me. Bobby, bring us in from the secondary road, then pull back and stand down, in case we need to relocate in a hurry.

Joe and Abigail, station yourselves in the woods near the head of Adderson’s trail, close to the road. Do
not
take any action. Observe and advise. Lorelei, can you staff the satphone link at the Sanctuary com center with Kamaka? Good. Everyone: earwigs only. We don’t need any com equipment crackling or voices being overheard. You know how sounds can travel in the woods.”

He massaged his temple. “New intel. I checked in with the M.E. According to Blake, he ruled Smitty’s death a homicide. Neck broken, dead before he went off the cliff. Traces of chloroform blistering around the mouth and lips. The use of chloroform would explain how Ms. Holokai disappeared so quickly and quietly. Especially the
quietly
part.

“People, I don’t need to remind you that this mission is unsanctioned, totally unauthorized. Volunteers only. If anyone wants to bail out, now is the time. Believe me, I will understand. We’ll all understand. The Fibbies are gone. According to Garrett, they’re back in Boston and already working their next case. If we wait to go through channels, Keko may not survive. Make no mistake. The FBI and the NSA are not gonna want to hear about us working on gut instinct, but we’re the best—the only—chance she has. If this goes wrong, we may lose Keko
and
our asses are gonna fry.”

Lucian grinned. “If this goes right, we’ll save Keko and our asses are
still
gonna fry.”

* * * * *

Keko kept her hands moving, but not necessarily productive, dragging out the moments.
Guys—please be fantastic at your jobs. Make me proud. MacBride, I’ll even move in
with you, wash your dishes, do your laundry, have your babies—ten of them—I pinky promise.

Just get me out of here!

She attempted to engage her captor in conversation, with the hope of distracting him, taking up more time. “Doesn’t it bother you at all to be a traitor, to betray your country? To help terrorists destroy democracy and murder innocent people? I don’t understand.”

Captain Perfect gave her a supercilious look. “Terrorists? Stupid woman. You have no idea what goes on in the real world, do you? Democracy only works for those with money. Lots of money. Then it works like a dream.”

She didn’t have a sleeve on her once sparkly tank top, so she used a rag to wipe her brow. “Okay, since we’re stuck here together, educate me. What’s the real scoop, if you’re not embroiled in an almighty
jihad
? If I remember my history, democracy and
jihad
don’t exactly mix well.”

She must have pricked his ego.

He pulled himself upright, postured like a rooster. “You build bombs, yet you have the unadulterated gall to castigate me?”

“Look, fella, we usually blast tunnels and road beds and deep wells, and bring down buildings without damaging anything around them. What we do is just a tad different from blowing up people on purpose, just to make a point. Or to grab their sand to add to your sandbox.”

“Don’t get all righteous, Ms. Holokai, demolitions expert. Your people are all ex-military, and there are buckets of blood on their hands. Our work is the same—the difference is that
we
get paid for it, you don’t. You’re poor patriots, we’re wealthy businessmen. Meaningless labels for different results.”

Ooh, a lead
. “What the hell are you talking about? We’re well-paid for the jobs we do.”

“Seriously? You’re paid a pittance, compared to the money available for people with your talent. Do you have any idea how much your job skills are worth out there, on the open market? Millions.
Millions
.” He swung his arm toward the nebulous
out
there
. “You still don’t get it, do you? We don’t give a damn who wins battles, who wins wars—as long as the fighting continues.”

“Huh? Okay, let’s try this again. What the hell are you talking about?”
This guy is
beginning to freak me out. His mind has gone ‘round the friggin’ pipe.

“Conflict, you foolish woman. Conflict. Wars generate money—huge amounts of money. Billions. Can you understand the concept? Billions! Billions for firearms, weapons, troop training. We’re not rebels or revolutionaries or jihadists. We don’t care about your so-called righteous causes. Why should we live in mud huts or eat sand every day? We are a consortium of businessmen. The ventures are a straightforward case of economics. Peace brings an end to our income. The right push at the right moment, the right leaders assassinated, the right people moved up the political ladder .