“I’m not looking for graphic descriptions—I’m looking for Intel.”
“Okay… He said he was going to take me to the women’s hut in about fifteen minutes for a shower and a good time in bed.” She added, “And all the water I can drink. And some food.”
“So we have fifteen minutes before he comes for you.”
“I guess.”
“That means he has the keys.”
She nodded.
“Okay…” Emilio had the keys and he had a stiffy. And he was apparently alone. Sounded like all the qualifications Emilio needed to become a dead man.
Taylor said, “I know what you’re thinking, Scott. I can’t help you… I’m too weak.”
“You’re stronger than you know.”
“I’ll be stronger later… after I get some food and water.”
“I don’t want you to pay for that food and water. Or the shower.”
She reminded him, “You said I should do what I have to do. I’m doing it.”
“The situation has changed. We need to get out of here.”
“You said nighttime was best.”
“We don’t have that long.”
“Let me rest… I’ll think about it.”
“All right.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Sorry I’m so out of shape…”
“You’re in great shape.”
“How are you doing?”
“I’ve got a few hours of gas left.”
“I’ll bring you some food and water.”
He wasn’t sure if Taylor could do that, or if she’d even be coming back. Time was running out faster than their options.
He changed the subject and said, “Well… we finally got the answers to everyone’s questions.”
“Worley already had those answers.”
Brodie nodded. And so did Trent, and everyone else in the Intel establishment who had anything to do with Operation Flagstaff, including, apparently, the previous occupant of this cell. The only thing Worley and friends didn’t know was the exact location of Camp Tombstone. But, assuming Haggerty had made some sort of report before he was captured, then Worley had a general idea of where Mercer’s camp was, and it would take Worley about twelve hours to get recon drones on station—or less, if he could cut through the red tape. Then… either a Special Forces raid, which could take a week to put together, or a rain of Hellfire missiles, which could take days to get clearance for. Meanwhile, Maggie had fifteen minutes before getting raped, and Camp Tombstone was about to move.
Taylor had sent their last grid coordinates to Dombroski—who was now waiting for their sat phone call from Collins’ aircraft. The question was, would Dombroski pass those coordinates on to Worley? Or would Worley call Dombroski for an update? Hard to know what these guys would do. They held the same rank in the same army, but that’s where the similarities ended.
In any case, Kyle Mercer now believed that Camp Tombstone was on someone’s radar and might soon become his graveyard. So he did what any good guerrilla commander would—you don’t wait to see what’s going to happen; you break camp and fade into the bush. And, if you’re lucky enough to have hostages, you take them with you. So the good news was that Brodie’s and Taylor’s lives were now worth more than the bolívar. The bad news was that those lives were going to become a living hell. Just like Kyle Mercer’s life had been for two years.
That was the small picture—a snapshot of him and Taylor. The bigger picture was no less disturbing. Long before Al Simpson happened to spot Kyle Mercer in a Caracas whorehouse, Brendan Worley and the Defense Intelligence Agency, and probably the CIA, knew that Kyle Mercer wasin Venezuela for the purpose of killing Colonel Worley. And they hadn’t shared that fact with the CID, whose job it was to apprehend Army personnel who’d committed or were about to commit a crime. There were other pieces of this disturbing picture that were now falling into place—the torture and murder of CIA Officer Robert Crenshaw, Operation Flagstaff, and now an interesting piece supplied by the fugitive himself: the helicopter ride to Bagram that, had it taken place, would have ended this case—one way or the other—before it began.
In cases like this, after you answer the question ofWhy?you need to ask the more legalistic questions ofWho knew what, and when did they know it?Starting from the top: What did Army Chief of Staff Mendoza know? How about Provost Marshal General Hackett? And Colonel Dombroski? And then there was the chain of command in Afghanistan. Mercer’s CO, Major Powell, knew enough to warn Captain Mercer about his suspicious helicopter ride. Apparently the people with the least information were Scott Brodie and Maggie Taylor—and she knew more than he did.
