Fallen Angel (18 page)

MAJOR SCALON WATCHED THE
large monitor in the satellite control center. Radar verified their calculations. Angel-12 was headed home. The Army insertion team was less than three miles from the expected impact area.

"Godspeed, gentlemen. It's all up to you now."

VITALY EGONOV SWITCHED OFF
the satellite phone on his desk and leaned back in a 1950s desk chair. It creaked. The young soldier's information was correct, and his man in Moscow confirmed it. He smiled. The heavens were about to give him a gift, something he could use in negotiating with the reigning government or could sell to the highest bidder. Although negotiation was several items down his wants list. Mostly he wanted to overthrow it and return things to their proper standing, just as they were in the great days of Khrushchev and Brezhnev; back when the Russian Federation was
Soyuz Sovetskikh Sotsialisticheskikh Respublik.
Things were tough back then, but the current global economy made the current system worse.

A third of the government was influenced by criminal elements and corrupt businesses. To Egonov, the country didn't need a new direction; it needed to return to an old one.

He sprang from the seat and marched to the door. They had more than one hundred kilometers to cover in short order. It was time to leave.

In the hall, the same large man he sent to install a speaker in Captain Masters's room strolled by, cigarette in hand.

"Nikolay, gather the men and vehicles. We're going on a mission."

"How many men?" His voice sounded as if he spent his mornings gargling sand.

"A small team. Make it six. All armed. Well armed. Also, I want a team to prepare a truck, a flatbed."

"We will be transporting something, sir?"

"Yes, my friend, we will. Now go, do as I say."

Egonov's heart picked up a few beats. If all went well, they would have the satellite without opposition. If things went really well, they might be able to kill a few people along the way.

CHAPTER 21

EVERYTHING ABOUT GINA'S BEDROOM
reminded Stacy of her daughter. The wee hours of the morning became the walking hours. Sounds of cars on the street in front of their house seeped through the wall and window; noises made by people going about the same business they went about the day before: work, shopping, taking children to school. Yesterday, she took no notice of the sounds; today they were laden with irony: the tragic happened and the world remained unchanged.

Gina was gone and the world kept spinning. Business would open, transactions would occur, airlines would take wing as if nothing so soul crushing as an abduction had happened.

In the living room sat three girls, the friends with whom Gina studied the night before. Each received word, most likely from Pauline's mother. The police interviewed the family. The girls—Pauline, Beth, and Sharon—refused to go to school. Unlike the rest of the neighborhood, they could not pretend nothing had happened.

At first, Stacy didn't want them in the house, not because she blamed them, but because she didn't want to be distracted with guests. Still, when the tears in their eyes and terror on their faces appeared, she couldn't close the door. For the last few hours the trio sat in stunned silence, staring at the floor, or the walls, or out the window as if Gina might stroll up the walk any moment.

Stacy pulled a tissue from a box by Gina's bed and blew her nose. It was one of the few things she was able to do: cry and blow her nose.

Pink tissue paper. Gina always wanted pink tissue paper. "Blue is for boys," she often said. She was five when she first said that, but she kept the preference as she grew.

Rob once said, "Insisting on pink tissue means you're psychotic."

Gina had replied, "I think you mean neurotic. There's a difference, you know."

On most days, Stacy was certain Gina was the smartest person in the house.

Stacy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The room smelled of Gina; the air was charged with the essence of Gina; and if she listened carefully, she could hear her daughter humming.

The tears came again. Stacy, seated on Gina's bed, pulled a pillow to her chest and buried her face. More Gina. The smell of her shampoo.

Tears turned to deep, body-racking sobs.

She felt a presence and looked up. Chaplain Bartley entered the room. He pulled Gina's desk chair within reach of Stacy and sat. He said nothing. Tears streaked his face.

"You don't have to stay, Chaplain."

"I know, but I'm staying out of a sense of self-preservation and to uphold an old family tradition."

"I don't understand." She continued to hug the pillow.

"My brother is on your husband's team. You know that. What you may not know is how much he admires your husband and your family. A few weeks ago, he told me he hopes to have a family like yours. If I'm not here for you, J. J. will make sure I get a weeklong butt kicking."

"Our family isn't perfect."

"No family is, Stacy. Perfection isn't the goal. Love is."

She took another tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "What's the family tradition?"

"No one gets to cry alone."

The words made her cry more. The weeping faded. "Chaplain, why would God do this to us? Is He punishing us for not going to church?"

He shook his head. "I don't think God is that small or vindictive. I've been a Christian for a long time and I've seen good come to bad people and bad to good people. The rain falls on the just and the unjust. No, I don't think God is doing this to you."

"But He allowed it."

Bartley folded his hands. "That's some thick theology, but in a nutshell, you're right. He did allow it."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I believe God is all powerful and all knowing, which means things do not happen without His knowledge. I also know He loves us and wants the best for us."

"How do you reconcile the two?"

Bartley shrugged. "I don't. Oh, I used to try to explain the whole thing away. I tried to defend God's honor, but I came to realize He didn't need my help. Bad things happen. They always have. Disease, poverty, greed, violence, and war. I became a soldier to help stop some of that; I became a chaplain to help those affected by such things."

"I still don't know how a loving God could let my little girl be snatched from the street."

"I know you don't. I don't either, but my not knowing the why doesn't overpower my belief in the Who."

"I'm sorry, Chaplain. I guess I'm not at my best." She looked past Bartley at the photos Gina kept on her desk. One was of the family taken in an in-mall photo business; the other was of Gina with her friends at a school function. Her gaze traveled back to the family photo and fixed on Eric.

Never before had she needed her husband more and he was somewhere in the world cleaning up other people's messes. He should be here. It wasn't a rational thought; it was emotion. Still, it was no less real. She was mad at Eric. Mad at the world. Mad at herself. She was especially angry with God.

"Tell Him."

Stacy looked at the man sitting in her daughter's chair. "Tell who, what?"

"If you're angry with God, then tell Him."

"Right now, Chaplain, I'm not sure I believe in God."

"I understand and I think He does too."

She didn't know how to respond and was too tired to try. "Do you know where he is?"

"God? Sorry, you mean Eric."

"Yes."

"No. Unless I'm deployed with a unit, I never know. It's not necessary for me to know, and as I'm sure Eric has mentioned, the fewer people who know what's going on, the better."

"Doesn't seem to be working this time, does it?" The words were prickly. If they bothered Bartley, he didn't let on.

"No, it doesn't. If Gina was abducted and the kidnapping is related to your husband's mission, then there's a serious problem in security."

"Will they tell him?"

Bartley's face went blank. "I don't know, Stacy. It's one of those things mission leaders debate and never resolve. I've seen it go both ways. Since I have no idea where the team is or what its mission is, I can't hazard a guess. I do know this: You remember the problem Lucy Medina had with her pregnancy a couple of years ago? You were a big help to her."

"I remember. She almost lost the baby and her own life."

"Colonel Mac made sure Jose knew of the problem and offered to extract him from the mission. That doesn't mean he'll do the same this time. Every mission is different and—"

"And Eric is team leader." She sighed. There was so much she didn't know. "I hate not knowing."

"I understand. Worry is the hardest work any of us will ever do." Bartley stood. "I'm going to give you some privacy. Just know that I'm here if you need me."

"Thank you, Chaplain."

He walked from the room and it seemed he took all her hope with him.

JERRY ZINSSER WALKED THE
area around the Moyer home. It was the tenth time he did so. Each time he covered a slightly different path. Rob Moyer had been by his side the whole time.

"You've been up all night, son. Don't you think you oughta head back and rest a bit?"

"No."

"It's no disgrace—"

"Forget it."

Zinsser studied Rob for a moment. He looked beat, worn by fear and impotence. He guessed the teenager matured fifteen years in the last few hours. His hair was disheveled, his eyes red, and the peach fuzz that passed for a beard was turning into a vague shadow on his face.

"Okay, pal. It's your call."

"Would you go home and rest if it were your sister?"

The corner of Zinsser mouth lifted. "Of course I would."

"You're lying to me, aren't you?"

"Yup. Lying through my teeth. Just trying to do what's best for you."

"What's best for me is to find my sister and kill the guys who took her."

"Ease up on the killing talk, Rob. Killing a man isn't nearly as satisfying as you might think. I speak from experience."

"Hey, Zinsser."

He turned to see Chief Warrant Officer Terry Wallace. The man was a walking, talking example of "nondescript": average height, average build, and—to Zinsser—average intelligence. He wore an identical blue blazer to the one Zinsser wore. He had been on Wallace's bad side since he first showed up on Wallace's doorstep, fresh from apprentice agent training. Wallace dismissed Zinsser's Army record, much of which was redacted, leaving out missions that would never be discussed except by those who were there. Not knowing why Zinsser earned a free pass through the acceptance process remained a big, pointy burr under his heavy saddle.

"Uh-oh," Zinsser whispered.

"Trouble?" Rob looked worried.

"Not for you. Trouble with a capital
T
for me."

"Why? Who is—?"

Zinsser raised a hand. "Now might be a good time for you to head back to the ranch."

"I told you, I'm sticking with you."

Zinsser sighed. "Okay, just keep your mouth shut. Got it?"

"I can do that."

"I hope so."

"Zinsser, you and me need to talk."

"Sure thing, Chief, but aren't we already talking?"

The man's hazel eyes seemed to darken. Once again, Zinsser successfully ticked off his boss. "You know what I mean. Why are you here?"

"Working, Chief."

"Last I looked, I made case assignments."

Zinsser smiled sweetly but not sincerely. "That was true last I looked too."

"I didn't assign you to this case. It didn't come through channels. If the police hadn't called to complain about your presence, I wouldn't even know about it."

"I'm sure they meant well."

"I want an explanation and I want it now. No sugarcoating, no cute talk."

"Gina Moyer was apparently abducted last night."

"Who is Gina Moyer and why is it any of your business?"

"She's my sister."

Wallace glared at Rob. So did Zinsser. "Who's the kid?"

"Rob Moyer. Rob, this is my immediate superior, Chief Warrant Officer Terry Wallace, Army CID. He heads the office out of Fort Jackson."

"Pleased to meet you, sir."

Rob held out his hand, but Wallace looked at it like the boy just sneezed in it. He ignored the offer of a handshake. "I need to talk to Special Agent Zinsser."

The rebuff offended Rob. "Go ahead."

"I want to talk to him alone."

"Then get a room."

"You little snot, who do you think you are?" Wallace made a confrontational turn to Rob.

Zinsser put a hand on his boss's chest. "Easy, Chief. I can explain."

"Remove that hand, Zinsser, or I'll take it off and feed it to you."

Ice water flowed through Zinsser's veins. The hand remained. Zinsser looked deep into Wallace's eyes. A second later, Wallace took a step back.

"Rob Moyer is Stacy Moyer's son. His sister is the one who's missing. Since his father, Sergeant Major Eric Moyer, is on a Spec Ops mission, I felt the abduction fell under CID jurisdiction. Kidnapping is a felony."

Wallace frowned and faced Rob. "Your dad's overseas?"

"I don't know where he is. We never know. He just leaves when he's told to."

Wallace nodded. He was a pain in the department's collective rear end, but he always showed respect to the family of soldiers on foreign fields, although it seemed to give him indigestion.

"Why didn't you call me as soon as you heard, and by the way, how did you hear?"

"Chaplain Bartley called me at about two this morning."

"And why would he call you?"

"I served with Moyer."

Wallace raised an eyebrow. "You know the girl? You know the family?"

"I've knocked back a few beers at their house and eaten some pretty good barbeque."

Wallace worked his lips, as if doing so would send ideas to his brain. "That means you're not a disinterested investigator."