process.
Someplace tropical, he thinks. Maybe an island in the Caribbean, or off the coast of Mexico. The weather seems warm enough, and he’s noted fine beach sand has trickled into their little cell.
More humming of machinery.
He’s certain they’re in this building’s basement, based on what he’s seen those few times when the door has been open. There are pallets of plastic-wrapped boxes and piles of lumber and pipes, and wires and conduits up above in the open ceiling.
Denise is next to him. “Daddy…did it work? Did I do good?”
“Hold on.”
Tom leans against the door one more time, not listening this time, but thinking.
Was this the time? Should he wait?
Waiting awhile longer had its advantages, as the day went on, but still…
Pelayo could come by at any time.
Whatever negotiations were happening out there could have gone wrong.
That armed guy with the thin strip of beard could come back in, and with two quick shots, end it all, and his and Denise’s bodies could be rolled up in the blankets and sheets and taken away.
No.
This was the time.
“Stand back,” he says, and this time, Denise pays attention. She steps back and Tom utters a quick and silent prayer, and pushes on the door.
Nothing moves.
He digs in with his bare feet and pushes again, and maybe it’s his imagination, but he feels something deep in the door vibrate, or shake, or move, and then the door pops open.
Tom curses and grabs the door edge, so it doesn’t fly all the way open. Denise squeals in excitement, and he turns and whispers, “Shhh,” but her eyes are wide with joy.
“I did it, didn’t I, Daddy?” she whispers. “I did a good job.”
Tom glances down at the lock recess, which a few minutes ago Denise had plugged with a wad of chewing gum. In the excitement and in their eagerness to leave them alone, the two men had shoved the door closed.
But the door didn’t lock.
Tom hugs his smart and tough little girl.
“You did a very good job,” he says.
He opens the door and peers out.
Nobody.
Just a wide basement and piles of boxes and construction equipment.
He reaches down and takes her soft hand.
“Let’s get out of here,” Tom says.
CHAPTER 26
FORT CAMPBELL is one of the largest Army bases in CONUS and Rosaria Vasquez feels like her section at Quantico could be dropped into the surrounding woods and not be missed at all. Here at Fort Campbell are the many elite spears in America’s arsenal, including the 101st Airborne, 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, 5th Special Forces Group, and 52nd Ordnance Group.
She’s with Captain Aaron Mitchum, and she hasn’t seen him—either clothed or unclothed—in more than two years. He looks pretty much the same. Light-blond hair, cut high and tight, some freckles on his cheeks and pug nose, and very dark-blue eyes. He’s been smiling at her ever since she was ushered into his office, and the smile stays there as he sits down. His desk is cluttered high on both sides with envelopes, forms, and file folders, and the office is cluttered as well, with two sets of filing cabinets, one designed to hold classified information, the bright-red cardboard sign saying OPEN attached to its drawers. Unlike Rosaria, he’s wearing ACUs, the camouflage uniform of the day at Fort Campbell.
“Rosaria…boy, you look great,” he says. “How long has it been?”
“Two years,” she says, smiling as well at the fond memories of sneaking out after school for little get-togethers or trysts at motels in the area.
“You doing well?”
“Good,” Rosaria says, “and you and Molly?”
He gestures to a framed photo teetering on the edge of his desk, showing a plump redhead holding an infant in her arms. “She’s doing fine, as well as our boy, Paul.”
Aaron pulls the framed photo two inches toward him and says quietly, “This isn’t a social visit, is it.”
“Nope.”
“What do you need?”
She goes to the personnel file. “I’m investigating a Captain Amy Cornwall, assigned to the 297th Military Intelligence Battalion. The captain spent four months here at Fort Campbell last summer.”
Aaron says, “Lots of folks come through here.”
As if it were a sign from above, there’s a roaring sound as a number of Black Hawk helicopters fly overhead. The framed photo of Aaron’s wife and son vibrates back to the edge of his desk.
Rosaria says, “She was assigned here for six months.” She makes a point of looking down at the open file folder. “Something called JOINT CLAW. I can’t find anything else about JOINT CLAW, but there’s a memo here about