Forced Disappearance Read online

  He ignored the pain that rippled through him as he stood and moved toward the strip of light under the door. He felt for the old-fashioned lock, bent the end of the thin copper rod, and inserted it into the small opening, listened as he turned his makeshift key. Nothing. He repositioned the rod and turned it again. And again.

  His ears strained for the click of freedom as much as for footsteps outside, knowing the soldiers could come for him at any second. But he didn’t hear anything.

  He pulled out the rod, reworked the end so the bent part was two millimeters longer. Then he tried the lock again, and this time something caught with a small, metallic click.

  He pocketed the piece of metal as he straightened, then opened the door a fraction of an inch and listened. Silence in the hallway. He peeked out into the long, gray corridor. Nobody in sight.

  Left or right?

  The soldiers usually dragged him left for interrogation. He limped in the opposite direction.

  At the end of the hallway, he had a choice to either step out to the courtyard or go upstairs. Since a dozen soldiers milled around outside now, Glenn limped up the stairs and ended up on the flat roof. High ground. So far so good. He could see the full extent of the compound for the first time.

  Six military barracks, all built from cement blocks, formed two courtyards. In addition to the soldiers outside, he could see others through the windows in the buildings.

  To the east, a majestic dam stood in the distance. Guri Dam? Had they brought him that far south? He squinted, trying to remember the Venezuelan map.

  Guri Dam was on the other side of the country from Caracas, where he’d been grabbed in the night a month ago. A definite setback. At this stage, he’d have an easier time reaching the Brazilian border than the US embassy in Caracas.

  He looked to the south, toward Brazil. He could see some sort of shantytown—probably the campamento he’d heard the soldiers talk about, then a lake, which had to be Lake Guri. The small military installation was probably here to protect the dam.

  Keeping low, he moved to the edge of the roof where the building backed up to the jungle. Twenty, possibly twenty-five, feet to the ground.

  Maybe he could jump without breaking anything.

  Then what? He flexed his swollen, bleeding toes, grit his teeth against the pain. No shoes; he’d lost those in the interrogation room during his first week here. But even if his feet weren’t already damaged, he couldn’t walk through the jungle barefoot.

  Okay, what else?

  Hurry!

  With a parting glance at the forest, he limped to the other side of the roof and focused on the paved road outside the garrison. He needed a car.

  The big army trucks in the courtyard would be too slow, but the smaller military Jeep just inside the gate had potential. He wasn’t against grand theft auto under the circumstances.

  He retraced his own bloody footprints to the stairs, stopping to listen at the top. Boots slapped against the floor somewhere farther down the hallway, coming closer and closer. Step by silent step Glenn stole down the stairs to intercept the man.

  When the soldier was within reach, Glenn popped out of the staircase and elbowed the surprised man in the face, knocking him out, and grabbed the rifle before it could fall to the floor with a clatter.

  Quick. He had to clear out before somebody else came.

  He slung the weapon over his shoulder before grabbing the guy, ignoring the riot of pain in his muscles as he half carried, half dragged the soldier up to the roof.

  He yanked off the man’s boots first. They would have been too small even if Glenn’s feet weren’t swollen beyond recognition, so he tossed them aside, focusing on the positive—the rest of the uniform would fit.

  He shoved his own filthy shirt into the man’s mouth, then used his threadbare pants to secure the gag in place, tying the pant legs behind the soldier’s head.

  He kicked off his wet underwear and dragged on the uniform that would have been too small a month ago, but now hung on his emaciated body. The pants were loose, but he couldn’t keep the soldier’s belt. He needed that to tie the guy’s hands and feet together behind his back. The soldier would work himself loose eventually, but hopefully not before Glenn was a good distance away.

  Time to go.

  He pulled the green canvas hat deep over his face and hurried down the stairs, stopped at the door that led outside. Showtime. He stepped into the courtyard.

  His heart beat double speed. The rifle made him feel better, but it wouldn’t hold the soldiers off too long. His best bet for survival was to stay unnoticed.

  The men hurried about their business, preparing for whoever was coming. All armed, all in better shape than Glenn.

  No time to hesitate. No time to think up a better plan.

  Glenn pushed forward and kept his gait even and strong, ignoring the pain in his feet. He walked with purpose, a man who belonged here. He headed toward the Jeep, adjusting his hat, partly so his uplifted arm would cover his face, and partly so if the soldiers looked at him, their attention would be drawn to the motion on top and miss the fact that Glenn was barefoot and bleeding.

  A dozen more steps. He stared straight ahead. And then the stupid monkey screeched.

  The rebar cage Winky was tied to stood maybe a dozen feet to Glenn’s right. His step faltered. He turned toward the animal, kept his head down, and moved forward. One second. Two. Three. Four. Five. He reached the cage. He sliced the rope with the knife he’d lifted off the soldier he’d knocked out. Then he grabbed the end of the rope, turned, and led Winky toward the Jeep.

  “Qué pasa?” one of the soldiers called after him. What’s going on?

  Glenn jerked his head toward the main building where he suspected the commander would have his quarters. The gesture should say he was acting on orders. He hurried to the Jeep, the monkey jumping into the back as if he knew his freedom was at hand.

  Except another soldier called out, louder and with more authority than the first. “Alto!” Stop!

  Like hell. Glenn jumped behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. He stepped hard on the gas, blinking to clear the stars he saw from the pain in his feet.

  “Hang on,” he called back to the monkey as the Jeep burst through the wooden gate, slivers flying in every which direction, soldiers shouting and running to catch up.

  Twenty yards. Fifty. A hundred. The Jeep nearly reached the main road by the time the first bullets slammed into the back. Glenn turned onto the highway he’d seen from the roof, southward toward the Brazilian border, and kept the gas pedal floored. Winky screeched endlessly in the back, covering his eyes.

  “We’re as good as gone, amigo,” Glenn tried his best to sound reassuring while he drove like mad. “We’re halfway to freedom, buddy.”

  Okay, maybe a little less than halfway.

  They hadn’t gone a mile before he spotted a military convoy coming head on.

  Despicably bad timing. “Looks like the commander’s visitors are here.”

  He glanced back at the trucks roaring after him from the compound. He couldn’t go forward and he couldn’t go back.

  He had one rifle, and a monkey for backup who couldn’t stand the sight of violence.

  So Glenn yanked the wheel to the right, veered off the road sharply, and crashed into the jungle.

  Chapter 2

  SHE SHOULD HAVE been sitting in military prison. She would have preferred it.

  Instead, Miranda Soto was starting a new job at the Civilian Personnel Recovery Unit, CPRU, a new government agency she’d never heard of before she’d been contacted by retired US Army general Eugene Roberts.

  She didn’t want the job. Alas, she’d spent half her adult life in the army, and when a general asked, nobody said, Thanks, but no thanks, sir.

  Miranda exited the Washington, D.C., parking garage across
the street from her new workplace, stopped at the food cart, and grabbed a bottle of iced coffee. She walked to the corner to cross the street, saw the vet sitting on the grass, dog tags hanging outside his camouflage shirt, one hand held stiffly at his side, sandy hair way past regulation length. He was probably only ten years older than she was, but he looked old enough to be her father. Being homeless did that to people.

  He certainly put her worries about her new job into perspective. She detoured his way and handed him her unopened bottle. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

  “Fallujah.” He had that bleak look in his eyes she knew only too well, had his own demons like Miranda had hers.

  She reached into her pocket and gave him a small card. “I volunteer at a veterans’ assistance agency in the evenings, if you want to stop by. We have free pizza usually.” She dug into her wallet and pulled out what bills she had, close to fifty bucks.

  He hesitated. “That’s too much.”

  “I just got a new job. First day. Let’s celebrate.”

  He offered a rusty grin. “I’ll toast you with a hamburger.”

  “Make it a double-decker. I’ll see you at Vet Services?”

  “They got more girls as cute as you?” he asked with a new spark in his blue eyes.

  She thought of the volunteers, mostly retired ladies. “In spades.”

  “I’ll check it out.” He looked like he might mean that instead of just saying the words to get her off his back. “You better get going. Don’t want to be late on your first day.”

  She hurried on with a quick wave, crossed the street, and strode into a giant block of a government building that swallowed her whole. Elaine Fisher, CPRU office manager, was waiting for her at security.

  “I hope you’ll like our little department.” Elaine, all smiles, led Miranda to the elevators. “General Roberts is testifying at a congressional hearing. He won’t be in today, but he’s looking forward to meeting you in person tomorrow.”

  She was in her mid-forties, roughly fifteen years older and maybe half an inch shorter than Miranda, her reddish-brown hair gathered in a clip at her nape. “Is this what you did before?”

  “Something similar. Personnel Recovery.”

  Personnel Recovery searched for military when they went missing. CPRU, her new employer, was the civilian counterpart.

  Elaine tucked her ID card into the pocket of her pink shirt, which matched her flower-patterned silk skirt. She pressed the last button, which had a capital B next to it. “It’ll be helpful to have another investigator. With about fifteen million Americans traveling overseas each year, we have no shortage of people who need our help.”

  Seemed like a big job. Large areas of the world were dangerous, due to political and military upheavals, and dangerous to Americans specifically.

  “I thought the US embassies took care of US citizens who got into trouble abroad.” The job had come about so suddenly, Miranda still had more questions than answers.

  “Nominally. The embassies don’t have the right investigative personnel. We do,” Elaine said with pride as they exited the elevator at the basement level.

  A staircase stood at the end of the hallway, leading down. Elaine moved down the steps, and Miranda followed. Apparently, the basement had a basement. Maybe they had security down here, and she needed to get her ID card before they could go up to the offices.

  They turned at the bottom of the stairs—the bunker-like, gray cement hallway stretching a hundred feet forward before coming to an abrupt dead end. Elaine opened the single door under the staircase with a proud tilt of her chin.

  Miranda blinked. Under the stairs. Harry freaking Potter.

  “This is my little empire.” Elaine gestured to the largest desk in the room, just inside the entrance. A row of baby pictures covered the half partition that defined her space. “My first grandbaby. Girl.” She beamed.

  “Very pretty.” Miranda thought of the photo in her wallet, Matthew sitting at the kitchen table, bouncing Abby on his knee. Not something she’d ever display. She couldn’t handle questions. Her losses were her own; they didn’t belong in the workplace.

  Hell, she didn’t belong in the workplace, not here. She didn’t want to fail again. But when a general asked . . .

  Following Elaine, she moved farther into the cavernous office space, curious why she’d been selected, how much the people here knew about her past. Not everything. They wouldn’t want her if they did.

  A dozen desks sat pushed against the walls in a haphazard pattern, only one in use, by a man who didn’t even look up from his laptop as they stepped in. Black, tall, wide-shouldered, he sat in the far corner, the wall behind him covered with a hundred or so headshots, people of every shape and race.

  A row of doors stood to the right, most of them open. One door led to a break room, another door to file storage. Past that, Miranda noted a meeting room and three offices. Only one office was occupied at the moment.

  Miranda noted the woman inside, lost in a phone conversation. “Where are the rest of the people?”

  “Most of the investigators are out on cases. Bjorn, the IT guy, is on vacation. He’ll be back tomorrow.” Elaine led her to a desk and picked up a manila folder, then handed it to her. “This should have your login ID, passwords, security badge. Everything you need.”

  Miranda scanned the contents, a dozen printouts and a badge. Not a fancy badge like the CIA or FBI would have, just a laminated card, more like a press pass. The badge had her photo, then her name, followed by “INVESTIGATOR” in capital letters, then the logo of the Department of Defense, and some brief text about her working with the authorization of the United States of America.

  She set down the folder and reached for the large cardboard box occupying her chair.

  “That’s your starter kit.” Elaine fussed. “Laptop, cell phone, and so on. You’ll have to sign for everything. The paperwork is all in there too. I’ll come back and collect it later. Oh, you have a coffee mug in the box too. Coffee’s in the break room. If you need something we don’t have in the vending machine here, the cafeteria is on the third floor. I’ll take you up for lunch. Word of warning, if guys from the other departments make rude bodily noises, just ignore.” She rolled her eyes. “Civilian Personnel Recovery Unit is our new name. Originally, we were the Foreign Recovery Team.”

  Miranda flashed a questioning look.

  “FRT.”

  If there was an intelligent comment to that, Miranda failed to find it.

  “You’ll meet the other investigators as they return from assignment.” Elaine nodded toward the man in the corner and her eyes turned dreamy for a moment. “I’ll introduce you to Milo once he’s off the phone. He just got back. He’s heading out again. We had two new cases come in this morning.”

  Elaine drew her gaze from the man to Miranda with effort. “I’ll let you settle in. When you’re ready, come over and I’ll take you into Karin’s office. Karin Kovacs supervises the investigators.”

  She hurried back to her desk where the phone was ringing, while Miranda turned on her new laptop and signed into her CPRU email. She had mail already, a confidentiality agreement, access codes to various law enforcement databases, office emergency procedures, other useful documents and links.

  She spent maybe fifteen minutes scanning them, then decided she could go through them in detail later. Right now, she was anxious to learn more about her new job, so she closed the laptop and headed to Elaine’s desk. “I’m ready.”

  “Cup of coffee first?” the woman offered as she stood.

  Okay, maybe some fortification would be good. “Sure.”

  Milo was in the break room, his jaw set tightly as if he hadn’t smiled in years. Like Elaine, he looked to be in his mid-forties. Elaine introduced him, flushing a little.

  He examined Miranda, somber eyes scanning her like an X-ray machine. “Welco
me to the Island of Misfit Toys. What have you done to be put here?”

  Nothing to share over the water cooler. She wasn’t even sure if the general knew the full reason behind her dishonorable discharge from the army. “What did the others do?”

  Milo shrugged. “We have a couple of ex-CIA agents whose identities have been compromised, and a few burned-out FBI investigators. Some of us have been transferred here as punishment. It’s the Last Chance Ranch.” He gave a wry grin. “We have some ex-military. PTSD galore. First time I accidentally knocked over a chair, half the unit hit the deck.” He caught himself. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Milo gave her a parting nod and strode back to his desk.

  “Why is he here?” Miranda asked Elaine as she gulped some coffee. “What’s with the pictures above his desk?”

  Elaine put a hand to her chest. “He was part of the FBI team that sorted clues prior to nine-eleven. He put together a report, warning of imminent attacks. When he approached the CIA, they ignored him. The agency and the bureau never combined their notes. He thinks he should have done more.”

  Okay. Wow. Miranda looked at him through the open door. She lived with guilt every day of her life, but she had a feeling it didn’t even compare to what Milo must be feeling.

  Elaine cast another longing glance toward him. “He keeps pictures of the targets he recovered. He’s determined to save one life for each that was lost in the attacks he couldn’t prevent.”

  “That’s thousands.”

  “When Milo says he will, you can believe him. He was shot in the neck last year. Doctor said he wasn’t going to make it. He was back to work two weeks later.” The words brimmed with admiration. “He refuses to die until his mission is finished.”

  Her new place of employment was a mental ward, Miranda thought. But far from finding the thought troubling, she relaxed for the first time since she’d walked through the door. She might just fit in.