The Soul Collectors (38 page)

‘Hatch is locked with a padlock and chains,’ Clark said. ‘The chain’s got some slack so I think we can lift it up enough to take a look and see what’s down there.’

Darby glanced at the path. The black guy, Reggie, lifted up the hatch – a big door mounted against the earth, the top covered by a camouflage blanket of fake leaves. She heard a rattle of chains as the door rose about a foot and then came to a jarring stop.

Clark, down on his knees, moved his tactical light through the foot-long gap.

‘There’s a ladder,’ Clark said. ‘Goes down to a hall made of stone.’ Coughing and gagging sounds followed, and then he said, ‘Christ it reeks like an outhouse. I’m seeing candles inside lanterns and they’re hanging on the stone walls.’

Darby thought about the walls behind Sarah Casey’s Plexiglas cell as Knowles said, ‘Anyone down there?’

‘Negative, Command. If we’re going to go down there, we’ll need bolt cutters.’

‘I’ve got them,’ Darby said. ‘Standby, Bravo Two. Command, I’ve reached the clearing.’

Darby clipped her weapon to the front of her vest. Straight ahead she spotted a set of hands, the thin wrists bound together by rope, the fingers crooked, broken.

She flipped up her night-vision goggles. She covered her mike as she leaned into Farrell and said, ‘Give me some light.’

Farrell turned on the tactical light mounted underneath his HK and focused the beam on the bound hands. Darby leaned forward and grabbed the wrists. She pulled hard, then staggered and tumbled sideways against the ground.

76

‘Bravo One,’ Knowles said, ‘what’s your status?’

Darby sat up. ‘Command, I’m holding a set of hands that have been severed at the forearms. Someone just stuck them in the dirt.’

‘What about the body, any sign of it?’

‘Stand by.’

She got on her knees, moved to the spot where she had pulled the hands and dug through the earth.

‘Command, I’m not seeing a body, just several bones.’

‘And these other hands? Any survivors?’

‘Unknown. Farrell and I will split up, check each one and see who’s alive. There’re at least a dozen or more here.’

‘Bravo Two, assist Bravo One and search for survivors.’

Farrell moved to her left. Darby walked to the next pair of hands, grabbed the wrists and this time pulled up a body. Down on her knees, she stripped off her gloves and then brushed away the dirt from the neck and checked for a pulse on the cold skin.

Standing, she turned on her tactical light and saw a shaved, scarred head. The emaciated body was covered with fresh and old scars, fresh and healing wounds – and there were no eyes, the sockets scorched and blackened as if they had been burned away. Like Charlie Rizzo, like Darren Waters, this victim had been castrated.

She swiped her forearm across her forehead. ‘Command, this is Bravo One. I have one male vic, deceased.’

Clark had pulled up a body and was checking for a pulse. His partner, Reggie, was kneeling on the ground, digging.

She moved on to the next set of hands when Clark said, ‘I have a young female vic, deceased, with blonde hair.’

Darby felt as though her stomach had been rolled across shards of glass.
Please don’t let it be –

‘It’s not Sarah Casey,’ Clark said. ‘Vic appears –’

Screaming cut through the air and she whipped her head around, bringing up her weapon. In the beam of her tactical light she saw Reggie writhing on the ground, his gloved hands working furiously at something wrapped around his knee – the clawed metal jaw of what she was sure was a bear trap. It had clamped around his left thigh and shin, trapping his leg at a 90-degree angle. His knee had been spared.
He must have knelt on the ground and triggered the trap’s spring with his knee.

Clark had bolted over to help his partner. Darby ran too, Reggie’s screaming and painful blubbering as loud as gunshot reports against her ears. The hands sticking out of the ground were bound by rope at the wrists. She dropped to her knees and helped Clark prise away the trap, her bare fingers slipping across the rusty metal jaws slick with blood.

Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw the bound hands move. Darby turned to them and saw moving fingers.

Reggie slid his shredded mess of a leg out of the trap. Darby got to her feet, wrapped her hands around the wrists and pulled.

77

A dirty oxygen mask covered Taylor Casey’s mouth and nose; a tube ran from the bottom of the mask into the ground. Her body swayed, limp and useless, and Darby pulled her out of the hole and laid her back against the solid ground. She checked for a pulse, found one and removed the mask.

Blood bubbled from her nostrils and the woman’s left eye and her entire forehead were swollen. Darby remembered the video, snapshots flashing through her mind – the woman strapped to the operating table and her eyelid being pulled back and the grimy hand holding the long, surgical ice pick – and she yelled over the awful howling:

‘I have Taylor Casey, need immediate EVAC.’

‘Stand by,’ Knowles replied.

Darby stood perfectly still by the woman’s body as new sounds filled the woods: the rattling of chains and thumping. She turned along with Clark, who had his HK back in his hands. He swung the tactical light in the direction of the noise – it was coming from the path – and she saw a tangled mess of pale arms reaching out from underneath the hatch. Hands gripped the edge of the hatch, trying to push it up. Emaciated bodies and scarred faces with shaved heads and frightened eyes,
oh Christ
there were dozens of them fighting to escape through the gap and they were screaming and howling.

‘Command,’ Darby yelled. ‘We’re going to need additional support. We have people trapped down here, underneath a hatch.’

A spotlight came from high in the air directly in front of her, from the fast-approaching Huey, and it lit up the clearing. In the space left by Taylor Casey’s body Darby saw skeletal remains, bones and skulls stacked on top of each other.

The Huey hovered over the treetops, its engines drowning out the awful howling. Leaves kicked up and spun around her in the powerful wind, and she caught sight of a shadow rappelling down a rope. Looked up and saw the heavy orange stretcher swinging underneath the copter’s black steel belly, being lowered by a rescue hoist.

Now Farrell screamed over her headset, his voice nearly drowned out by the copter’s engine. ‘Command, this is Bravo One. We have a possible IED situation.’

Darby turned around holding the woman’s limp body and almost dropped her when she saw Farrell standing at the edge of the clearing, his hand gripping a nest of multicoloured wires that ran in different directions, each one disappearing underneath the ground where she stood.

Clark had Reggie on his shoulder and was making his way around the edge of the clearing, heading to where Jack Casey now stood. Darby, wary of any additional bear traps, backtracked.

Knowles said, ‘Can you disarm it?’

‘I have to find it first,’ Farrell said, staring down at the wires in his hand like they were a puzzle he could solve.

Casey had already unbuckled the straps for the stretcher. He wore a combat helmet but not night-vision goggles, and his face was pinched into a fist, his eyes wet. He took his wife from her hands. Darby held the stretcher to keep it steady and Casey’s face broke when he saw her. His stomach hitched and the tearing sound that erupted from his mouth rode down her spine like a bolt and made her want to turn and run.

Casey didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. She went to work buckling the straps around his wife while Reggie sat on the ground, hissing in pain and putting pressure on the bleeding wounds of his shattered leg. Clark helped secure the rope to Reggie’s harness and then he secured himself.

Darby reached around her back for the bolt cutters.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Casey yelled, and his face nearly broke again. ‘My daughter could be somewhere down there. If she is, I want to be the –’

The explosion came east of their position, a low, thunderous boom from deep within the ground. She heard trees splitting and the night sky bloomed with dirt and rock and wood.

The helicopter started to climb, while Reggie and Clark tried to climb up the swinging ropes. Casey turned to look at his wife’s stretcher, saw it dangling in the air and almost seemed to want to grab it, as if he could keep her safe. Darby took his arm and pushed him north, screamed at him to run like hell.

A second explosion, closer, like God’s mighty fist had punched up from underneath the ground, sending up earth and stone and splintering trees high into the air. The copter’s searchlight crossed through the woods directly in front of her and she sprinted, trying to see the terrain up ahead, trying to commit it to memory. Branches whisked past her face and her hands released the clips of her tactical vest so she could cast off the additional weight. Another explosion and the force of it rocked the ground and she stumbled sideways against a tree. Darby regained her balance quickly and sprinted, as debris rained down through the woods. BOOM, another explosion, too close, from the clearing packed with bones, it had to be. The shock wave slammed into her and sent her spinning into darkness.

78

Darby’s eyes opened to a tunnel of bright light, the heavenly kind people reported in near-death experiences. She didn’t see God, though, just a big hand holding a medical penlight directly above her right eye.

The light shut off and the hand moved away and she saw slants of revolving blue and white and red lights moving across a scratched white metal ceiling. A helicopter roared somewhere outside and when it died she heard beeping sounds and, from the south, voices.

She found she could turn her head and she did, to her right, and saw IV lines and Jack Casey. He lay next to her, unconscious, an oxygen mask strapped across his swollen, bloodied face. Nose broken and left ear mangled. A steel frame had been mounted across the front of his torso so he couldn’t move – it was a Stryker frame. You put someone in that when you suspected possible paralysis and didn’t want the body to move.

She wiggled her toes, felt them move along with her fingers and arms. She craned her head – a pain like nails being hammered through her skull – and saw her body lying on a simple stretcher. Her boots had been removed but the rest of her clothing, torn and dirty and bloodied, remained. Her wrists were strapped. Two more straps covered her chest and she saw one across her thighs. They had strapped her down to keep her body from moving in case she had suffered a spinal injury.

The pain turned into a jackhammer and before she sank back down to the pillow she saw the back of the ambulance, the open doors revealing patrol cars, fire trucks and other emergency vehicles parked on wild grass twisting in the wind, while above a pale milk-coloured sky filled with smoke.

Someone jumped on the back bumper and she heard heavy footsteps.

Sergey’s face hovered above her own. The man looked beaten down, broken, but he didn’t have a single scratch on his face. Good. The copter had made it out.

It took great effort to speak.

‘Taylor,’ she said in a hoarse whisper.

‘En route to the hospital. You’re going there too, in a moment.’ Sergey touched her hand, squeezed it. ‘You’re fine. Probably a concussion and that’s it.’

‘Three.’

‘Three what?’

‘Third one. I keep this up I’m going to end up like Muhammad Ali.’ She licked her lips. ‘The listening device.’

Sergey hadn’t heard her. He leaned closer and she asked him about the listening device she’d found inside the USB drive.

‘The Boston techs couldn’t track it down,’ he said. ‘My guess is they shut down their listening post from their car or wherever they were hiding.’

‘Hatch?’

‘Gone. Blown apart, have no idea who or what was down there.’

Sarah
, she thought. Had Sarah Casey been trapped somewhere beneath that hatch?

‘Same with the mass grave site where you found Jack’s wife,’ Sergey said. ‘Explosion blew it apart, scattered shit everywhere. We’ve started the recovery effort, collecting body parts, evidence, whatever we can find. We almost didn’t get out of there.’

‘Farrell?’

‘Banged up but okay.’

She looked at Casey. Sergey answered the question.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The Stryker frame’s a precaution. When they found him, he was unconscious. Could be a severe concussion or something more serious, we won’t know until he gets to the hospital. That’s where you’re both going. Keats is going to be there with you. Keats and some of his men. They’ll keep an eye on you and Jack.’

‘I’ll come back and help you search.’

Sergey didn’t answer. He had already left.

An EMT, a doughy, bald man with cheeks red from the cold, came into view and she saw him knock twice on the side of the ambulance. It drove away a moment later, sirens wailing.

The EMT moved in the space where Sergey had knelt and checked the machine beeping somewhere behind her. A moment later he checked one of the straps binding her wrists to the gurney.

‘Too tight?’ he asked.

She nodded and looked up at the ceiling, drowsy. The EMT loosened the strap, then cupped her hand in his own.

She lifted her head slightly. It wasn’t the EMT who was holding her hand; he had moved to the other side of the gurney to shoot something inside her IV line. It was Keats. He was kneeling by the end of the gurney and his eyes were damp.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

She swallowed, trying to get some moisture into her mouth. ‘Not your fault.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Keats said again, and this time he lost it, broke down and started to cry. ‘They made me do it. They have my son.’

A bolt of fear exploded through her and then died as the drugs floated through her system.

‘They said they’d give Luke a lobotomy,’ Keats wailed. ‘He’s only eight, and they said they’d turn him into a vegetable like Jack’s wife unless I brought you to them and I had to … I’m sorry, I had to do it, God forgive me, I’m so, so sorry.’

Darby struggled to stay awake and Keats wailed as if he were about to burst apart at the seams. The EMT clapped a hand on the Secret Service agent’s shoulder, leaned in close and told him not to worry. Luke was alive and everything was going to be okay.