The Destroyed (21 page)

There was the sound of a scratch, then the whiff of sulfur, followed seconds later by the strong odor of cigarette smoke.

Nate could hear the man take a couple of puffs.

Reach for the grip while you roll
, Nate told himself.
Pull up and over. Fire.

He ran the drill through his mind one more time.

A step. Not one continuing around the building, but one
toward
the building.

Come on, buddy. Turn back around. Walk away.

Unfortunately, the man didn’t turn, and he didn’t walk away. He came right up to the building, only a foot or two around the corner. So close, in fact, that if Nate reached above his head and slipped his hand around the edge, he could have probably grabbed the guy’s ankle.

What the hell was this idiot doing? All the man had to do was glance around the corner and he’d see Nate.

Turn.

Around.

And.

Walk.

Away.

If Nate thought it any louder, the words would actually fly from his lips.

The man unzipped his pants.

No. No, no, no, no!

At first he heard the sound of a few drops hitting the building, then a steady stream. Nate had no idea how the ground that butted up against the house was grated. Would the growing puddle reach around to where he was lying?

He felt the sudden urge to jump up and run, but if he moved, the guard would hear him.

You couldn’t have just used a tree?

The smell of urine intensified, which he knew had to mean it was getting closer. As carefully as possible, he lifted his head until it hovered a quarter inch above the ground.

Around the corner, the stream finally turned to a trickle. After a few more seconds, it stopped completely. The guard zipped up and walked away.

As soon as he felt it was safe, Nate sat up. The dirt where his head had been lying was indeed soaked. Nate touched the collar of his shirt, then moved his hand up the side of his head, over his ear and hair.

Dry.

“I take it he didn’t see you,” Daeng said.

“Almost.”

“You’re clear at the moment if you want to come back.”

“Not yet.”

Though getting out sounded like a great idea, Nate knew he still had to check the other building.

“Where are the guards?” he whispered.

“All three out front,” Daeng reported. “One by the cars, one on the porch, and the last still in front of the other building.”

“Let me know if anybody moves.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Hopefully not something stupid.”

“Copy that.”

Nate headed back to the vines in the field behind the house, and used them to hide his movements as he snuck along the row. Once he was directly behind the outbuilding, he straightened up and moved quietly over to the structure.

The long backside was a flat, plastered surface with no indications there had ever been windows or doors there. Both the right and left side were equally unadorned. As he and Daeng had noted earlier, the only direct way in or out was the door out front.

He worked his way along the far end of the building up to the front corner, crouched down, and used the camera function on his phone to peek around the corner. The closest guard stood fifty feet in front of the outbuilding, his attention focused on the hills.

Nate angled the camera so he could get a better look at the building itself. The front door was about ten feet from his position.

Don’t do it
, a voice in his head said.

He took a step forward.

Don’t!

Another step brought him fully around the corner. Keeping his pace slow, and his profile as low to the ground as possible, he crept all the way to the door, reached out, and grabbed the knob.

“Um, what are you doing?” Daeng asked.

Nate was in no position to answer, which was probably for the best since he was asking himself the same question.

He twisted the handle, half expecting it wouldn’t move, but it did. When the latch was clear, he gently pushed inward until the door moved beyond the jamb.

Light streamed out from inside, not particularly bright, but, given the darkness outside, more than enough to be noticed if anyone was looking in the right direction. If he opened the door any wider, the chances of that happening skyrocketed.

He silently groaned in frustration. Unless he could get inside, he couldn’t know for sure if Mila was there.

He cocked his head and listened through the narrow opening. Quiet.

“More men exiting the house,” Daeng said. “You might want to get out of there.”

Nate glanced at the other building, and saw movement on the porch.

Wonderful.

Having no choice, he eased the door closed, and quickly moved back around the side of the house.

“Two of them are headed your way,” Daeng said.

“And the others?”

“One’s still on the porch, the second’s doing a sweep around the house.”

“Okay.”

“You
are
getting out of there, right?”

“Soon.”

More guards meant more chances of being caught, but it also signaled a potential opportunity. Nate pressed himself as close to the edge as he could get, and listened.

He picked out the two distinct patterns of steps almost immediately, one man taking longer strides than the other. Then a voice, indistinct at first.

“…bably tomorrow.”

“Okay. Sure,” a second voice said.

The steps continued until they reached the outbuilding, then stopped. There was the sound of metal on metal, someone opening the door and not worrying about being heard.

“Any requests and your answer is no.”

“Of course.”

They walked inside and the door shut behind them.

Nate replayed what they’d said. It hadn’t been much, but the “any requests and your answer is no” seemed odd.

He leaned toward his mic and said quietly, “Keep an eye on it and see how many come out. Time for me to leave.”

As Nate was making his way through the vineyard, Daeng said, “The door’s opening again.” He paused. “Two coming. One of them from before, but the other one’s new.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Any requests and your answer is no
.

Instructions to someone who’s about to guard a prisoner, that’s what it sounded like to Nate. And if that were the case…

Mila.

Again, not indisputable proof, but to Nate it was damn close.

__________

M
ILA PACED BACK
and forth in her pitch-black cell. Her captors had taken her shoes and socks, so twice she had stubbed her toe against the wall.

For a while, she had tried lying down, but that had only driven her crazy. At least the pacing was helping to quell the excess anxiety she felt building inside.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Turn.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Turn.

One. Two. Three—

Someone touched the handle on the other side of her door. She stopped, and shifted most of her weight onto her back foot so she could sprint out of the room if the opportunity presented itself.

As the door opened, the light that spilled through temporarily blinded her, but in that initial split second she had seen the dark outlines of two men standing just outside. She eased the pressure off her leg, her potential run for freedom currently off the table.

She squinted until her eyes adjusted to the light.

Not two men, three.

She idly wondered if they were finally going to administer drugs or do whatever they had in mind to get her to talk. Part of her wished they would. Hanging around in the dark was just wasting time. Any change could provide—however small the odds—the opportunity for escape.

“Turn around,” one of the men said.

She did.

“Now face me again.”

She did that, too.

His gaze traveled up and down her body, stopping at her foot. “What happened?”

She looked down at her bloody toe, and shrugged. Let him figure it out.

He stared at her. “You might want to get some sleep.”

He took a step back, and one of the others shut the door.

She remained where she was standing, the afterimage of the lit doorway still glowing in her retinas. Then, once she was sure they weren’t coming back, she started pacing again.

CHAPTER 22

APRIL 12
^th
, 2006

ATLANTA, GEORGIA

“T
HAT’S IT RIGHT
there,” the woman said. She had introduced himself as Ms. Hafner, but by the way she’d stumbled when she said it, it was clear to Mila the woman had never used that name before.

Mila didn’t care. That was the business. Some people were just better at it than others.

The package was a square box no more than two inches high. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. It reminded her of those old-time packages she’d seen in the movies. Parcels, they’d called them.

What it contained, she didn’t know, nor was she even curious. That wasn’t her job. Couriers seldom were told what they were carrying. It was better that way.

Having already been informed that the item being transported was small, she’d brought along her brown shoulder bag. She picked up the box and deposited it inside.

“Anything else?” she asked. There seldom was, but she always checked.

“No, that’s it. You can go.”

A dismissal. That didn’t sit well. She may have been
just
a courier, but that didn’t make her any less important than the woman. Still, she stifled the response she wanted to give, and left with a smile. Work was work. No sense in pissing off a client.

More times than not, she would travel by commercial airliner. In a way, it provided a bit of a thrill as she passed through various airport security checks carrying packages filled with the unknown. Not once had she ever been stopped and searched.

Sometimes her clients would arrange for her to fly on a private jet or even on a governmental aircraft. Those trips never required a security check. She would simply be ushered on board and directed to a seat. Those kinds of flights were a mixed bag. Sometimes they were relaxing and enjoyable, other times they were uncomfortable and boring.

On this particular assignment, she’d been instructed to go to a private airfield just outside of Atlanta, where she would be hitching a ride on a noncommercial flight to Lisbon, Portugal.

As she drove through the city, she hoped and prayed the trip would not be completely horrible. A small private jet would be nice, something with cushy seats and a stocked bar.

She was well out of the city and into an area of farms and scattered homes when she finally reached the turnoff for the airport. The drive had taken her longer than she’d expected, causing her to push the outside window of the time she’d been given to catch the plane. So when she crested the hill and saw that it was still waiting at the airport just a quarter mile away, she was both relieved and annoyed. She was going to make it, but she certainly wasn’t going to be flying in style.

Though there were no markings on the side of the aircraft, Mila had no doubt the plane belonged to the US military. It was a modified commercial passenger jet. Not large like a 747, but the smaller type.

737? 727?

She wasn’t sure. Identifying planes wasn’t one of her specialties. What she did know was that military flights were devoid of any extra comforts. The best she could hope for at this point was not getting stuck traveling over the Atlantic with a troop of soldiers. That had happened to her once, and she’d been the recipient of a nonstop barrage of bad pickup lines.

The airport was surprisingly low-key. There wasn’t even a fence around the outside, and the only building of any size was a single hangar barely large enough to house more than a handful of small private planes. There was no tower, no terminal. Just a metal roof-covered concrete slab that was home to a few picnic tables. Truly a private airfield, albeit one with a runway large enough for a full-sized passenger jet.

Mila parked the car where she’d been instructed, grabbed her shoulder bag, and headed for the plane. Before she could get even halfway there, she was met by three military-looking men in civilian clothes.

“May I help you, ma’am?” one of the men said.

“I’m Mila Voss. I believe I’m expected.”

“ID?”

She pulled out her passport. She was traveling as herself on this trip, her client having told her this was a straight pickup and drop-off with no need to go covert.

The talker examined her ID, took a hard look at her face, then nodded and handed the booklet back.

“We were beginning to wonder if you were going to make it.”

“Farther out here than I was led to believe,” she said with a shrug.

“Hobart will show you aboard.”

Hobart, the youngest-looking of the three, motioned toward the plane and said, “This way, ma’am.”

They climbed the stairs and went inside. Mila had been expecting to see at least some of the seats filled. Given her late arrival, she had assumed she was last. But the plane was empty.

She looked at Hobart. “This flight’s not just for me, is it?”

“No, ma’am. The others will be here in just a few minutes, and we’ll be airborne shortly after that.”

She felt strangely relieved by that. If the plane
had
been for her alone, she would have really begun to worry about what was in the box she was carrying.

“You’re welcome to any seat in the first ten rows,” Hobart said. “And if you don’t mind, please use the facilities at the front of the plane during the flight.”

“No problem,” she said. “Thank you.”

She selected a seat next to the window in the seventh row. After strapping on her seat belt, she leaned over and raised the armrests that bracketed the middle seat. Once they were in the air, she could stretch out and get some sleep.