The first daughter, p.19
The First Daughter, page 19
‘Trust me lad,’ Adam said, with a devil-may-care smile and a wink.
Then, he was gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Alexis Green gazed out into the thick, green canopy of the rainforest around them as she walked the perimeter. They were in the region of Kilambo, an area in the northeast corner of the Democratic Republic of Congo.
Armed militia groups were still perpetuating numerous atrocities against civilian populations, committing systematic and brutal executions. Mothers were raped and killed in front of their families, the fathers butchered with machetes. Often, they would force boys as young as ten to kill their own parents, the parents encouraging, pleading with them to kill them. Knowing that if they did not, their sons would be brutalised and executed also.
After children, women suffered particularly. Many were ran down, before having their arms hacked off to prevent them from resisting being raped.
The clearing they were in was an encampment Green and Josh had set up to protect the civilian population. They provided medicines, food, set up schools and tried as best they could to help the people recover.
They took it a little further than regular aid agencies, however.
Providing all of this aid to the people was all well and good, but if they then left them to their own devices they could just as easily fall victim to the militias again. So, they trained up the men, and the older boys over seventeen, to defend their homes. Enlisting said men, they had set up fortified barricades so that an attacking force would be bottle necked in their approach and easily picked off by the defenders. The settlement had been well situated on top of a rise, so that anyone approaching the settlement would be sighted by sentries well in advance.
And by and large, they had had little trouble. The militias liked easy meat. They weren’t interested in fighting people who could fight back.
Finishing her rounds, Green savoured the warmth of the sun on her face, taking in the humming and buzzing of the wildlife in the rainforest around them in the early morning from the centre of the village, which consisted of a square of grassland where the children often played. Her reverie was quickly shattered by boys squealing and shouting as they rushed around her.
‘Oh gee, I gotta go in goals again,’ Josh said, running along with an old soccer ball at his feet, a big grin on his face.
Green smiled fondly at Josh. He had certainly been true to his word in trying to make up for the wrongs he had did at the behest of rouge elements of the CIA. They wouldn’t have managed half of what they had without him. He had been instrumental in helping train the locals to defend themselves, in picking out the location of the settlement, in its construction and defences. He had put his life on the line, venturing into militia camps and taking a leading role in rescuing some of these very children he now played soccer with.
And the kids loved him, and he them. That was clear.
He had changed a lot since that fateful day at Bangram airbase in 2005. His shoulder length dark red hair was now much shorter and practically white from the sun, as was his unkempt beard that gave him a rugged, if dishevelled handsomeness. He sported a long slash of a scar down his left cheek where an ADF machete had caught him on a rescue operation.
‘Ya, and Alex, you be referee yeah?’ One of the bigger kids asked.
‘Sure,’ she laughed, running in and flicking the ball away from Josh’s feet.
‘Hey!’ He laughed.
THE SHERIFF SPOKE to them all at length about what was required of them. In order to conduct a full-scale search of the working areas of the farm, they would need to pull off a convincing imitation of a snap audit. Owing to the fact that investigators had been attacked on one such inspection a couple of years ago, a very rare occurrence but the one in question had put two of the investigators in hospital, it was customary for local law enforcement to accompany investigators going about their job of ensuring that farms were up to code in relation to chemicals used on crops, animal welfare and the such.
Brian, given his difficulty with imitating an American accent and, given his age, reluctantly accepted his role of impersonating a vet. But only after receiving firm assurances that he would not be required to stick his arm up a cow’s arse.
Carson and Brooke were going to be checking the farms records against the cattle’s registration tags, ensuring that they were all present, correct and accounted for. The Cafferty farm had benefited from being situated close to the Las Vegas Wash, and drew water from it to irrigate the crops they used for cattle feed, and a small area of land the Cafferty’s had set aside to grow their own crops which were not for commercial sale. This meant the Cafferty farm used pesticides and fertilisers, which would also have to be physically checked against receipts of sale, as commercial fertiliser could be used in the construction of crude, yet effective explosives.
Sheriff Sanders would call and tip off Cafferty about the inspection, as he sheepishly admitted, he had done more than once. Although he hastened to add, Cafferty never had nothing to hide, he was just an old friend. They didn’t want to catch whoever was there with their pants down and show up announced, as they would likely just start shooting. A suitable enough period of time had passed since the last audit, and Cafferty would have enough time to show the people who had taken over his farm, and his daughter, the paperwork from such audits and show that it was all legit. With Bradley well concealed in overwatch, he would be able to observe the enemy movement around the farm, see if they all congregated in one of the properties out buildings, or, more importantly, if they moved the first daughter.
Brian had made a trip back into town and requisitioned a grey Ford station wagon. He then roughed up the pickup, adding a few dents, and added some random bumper stickers he had picked up from the service station, one, a picture of a grey alien, the other, an anti-war one with the peace logo. He didn’t want to gamble on the former owner being a friend of Cafferty. If he recognised it, he might give the game away over fear of what might befall his own daughter, so Brian switched out the licence plate from another pickup back in the 7/11 lot. The Station Wagon was less distinctive than the pickup had been, so he settled on muddying up the licence plates with dirt.
Back in the station, Brooke and Carson had taken it in turns to catch some sleep, after they had removed the restraints from the deputies in the cell block and left them with magazines, newspapers, food and bottles of water. They were less than grateful and understandably pissed off, but such was life. Mackenzie was sitting away from the other two deputies, both of whom appeared to hold him in very little regard.
Brian had managed to catch some shut eye before the early shift deputies turned up at five in the morning, only to join their colleagues in the cell block, much to their bewilderment. The stations civilian staff, consisting of a receptionist, office assistant and building caretaker, would arrive around half past eight. They would find a note from the sheriff asking them to release the deputies from the cell block. By which time, they hoped to have secured the first daughter.
At five thirty in the morning, weapons were checked, and the long weapons made ready for use were concealed beneath blankets in the back of the station wagon. Brian left his M4 in the cab of the pickup as this would be his ride. They were all set to go. Sheriff Sanders made the call.
‘Howdy Martin, how are you this fine morning?’
‘I, I’m doing well, thank you Sheriff Sanders. What’s up?’ Martin Cafferty asked.
He was a tall, well built man, with dark eyes, and a chiselled, weathered complexion, his dark hair and beard flecked with grey. He looked like a man who could handle himself.
But the dark circles around his red rimmed eyes told a very different story. He was a broken man, broken by fear over what would become of his daughter. It was only days ago that they had awoken to find their farmhouse taken over by armed men in dark clothing. He and his wife Susie had screamed, begged and pleaded as their daughter was dragged away. All in vain.
He had been forced to work his farm, following his regular routine. A farmer’s life was hard graft, but the sleepless nights he spent worrying about his daughter, made it all the harder. Everywhere he went, one of them was always nearby. They wore casual, old clothing suitable for farm work, Cafferty’s own clothing no less. But they had made a point of showing him they were armed at all times, anything untoward on his part, they assured him, and they would kill them all.
Despite their assurances that Sheila had not been harmed and was only helping them, and should they cooperate they would all be back together soon, Martin had his doubts.
He feared that when they ceased to be of any use, that they would just kill em all.
He’d seen them pulling a girl from a hidden compartment cleverly concealed in a black Toyota pickup truck the other day. The girl had had a hood covering her face, but with the dark hair spilling out from it, and the shape of her figure, he had thought it was his Sheila. He’d watched with mounting anger as he saw one of the large men, with mean, slavic features and an Eastern European accent, paw at her ass as he carried her away over his shoulder into the barn. Moments later, he heard a terrible, heart rending scream coming from the barn.
His minder had dropped him with the butt of his pistol as he fought like the devil to get to her.
When he came to, the slavic features glaring down at him had said,
‘Is not your daughter. Your daughter, not here. Try that again, and I cut your wife.’
These were evil men, with evil intentions. Of that he was sure.
‘Nothing to worry about Martin, but you are getting audited this morning. Team from the department of agriculture and a vet turned up not five minutes ago.’
‘Haha, sure Sheriff Sanders. Thanks for the heads up!’ Martin said, and disconnected.
‘What was that all about?’ The newcomer, who had arrived just last night, demanded.
He was American, clearly some kind of military man with close cropped, greying hair. There was a strange dynamic between him and the other men who had been occupying his home. He was directing things, that much was clear. Yet, these men did not answer to him, nor did there appear to be any kind of comradely between them.
‘We’re getting an audit from the department of agriculture. They’ll want to check my records, the cattle, fertiliser stock, everything.’
‘Well shit!’ The man fumed. ‘How long does it take?’
‘The cattle will take a while, but the barn and what have you, that shouldn’t take long at all.’
‘Okay, right. Shit!’ The man cursed again.
He spoke into a receiver, and one of the men who had been staying with them these past few days appeared. They spoke quietly between themselves. The man nodded curtly, then jogged out of the room.
‘Gonna need to take your Land Cruiser,’ the man said, taking the key off the hook. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ The man asked, smiling coolly.
‘You all just took my daughter without asking, but now you asking to borrow my car? Shit, you all just gonna kill us all when you’re through with us anyways, ain’t ya’s?’ Martin demanded.
‘Why, Mr Cafferty,’ the man said, a look of astonishment on his face. ‘Not at all. I personally guarantee no harm will come to your family, so long as we have your continued cooperation.’
‘Like my daughter?’
‘Trust me when I say, she couldn’t be in a safer place than she is right now,’ the American replied, with a meaningful smile that didn’t quite reach his slate grey eyes.
The man the American had spoken to returned. To Martin’s astonishment, he had reappeared wearing U.S. military fatigues, and carrying a sturdy looking, metallic laptop case. He wordlessly took the keys from the American, ran out into the yard, and took off in Martin’s cruiser.
CHAPTER TWENTY
They turned onto the hard-packed, desert track that led to the Cafferty farm, three vehicles in convoy. At the front was Sheriff Sanders driving his Sheriff’s suburban, wearing his grey, Stetson campaign highway patrol hat, complete with aviators to protect against the early morning sun.
Beside him was Carson, wearing the beige uniform of Nevada’s so-called cow cops. He also wore mirrored aviators, beneath a beige, wide brim cattleman Stetson hat, for which he had had to requisition foam inserts from one of the deputy’s hats to make it fit correctly. He felt thoroughly ridiculous wearing such attire, but needs must he reasoned.
One must look the part.
Following the sheriff’s Suburban, Brooke was driving the station wagon Brian had, he assured her, merely borrowed. Noticing the engine ticking still over, the exposed wiring beneath the steering column and, the lack of any key, she had told him that the Brit’s would be paying any damages and compensations owed. Brian had responded simply with a wink and a grin. Brooke had had to go into the station house storeroom to find a beige uniform – the highway patrol having switched to grey recently. Using every hole in the uniform belt, and punching in three more, she managed to make the trousers fit her slender frame. She had opted to forgo the Stetson, however she had helped herself to one of the deputies mirrored aviators.
Taking up the rear, was Brian in the red pick-up. He had opted for the hippy Grandad look, wearing a thin red cardigan over stonewash blue jeans, a pair of reading glasses on his nose completing the look. At first glance, he’d easily be mistaking for a kindly old veterinarian. Only upon much closer inspection, namely, seeing the Glock tucked away beneath his red cardi, and that his knowledge of animal health and welfare was restricted pretty much to only dogs, would the game be given away. Sander’s had told him what to check and where on the cows, but he was only ever going to be giving the impression of undertaking the health checks.
Brian had found a suitably sized bag in the deputy’s locker room, emptied it out, and used it to conceal his M4. He had slid the rear disassembly pin across, and the upper and lower receivers folded in on themselves enough to tuck it into the grip bag. Should the need arise, he would have the weapon assembled and ready to fire in seconds. Any cows unfortunate enough to be near him would be dropped and used for cover.
The farm buildings came into view ahead, a rough track separating the two farm enclosures on either side, one side of which housed a large number of cattle, the eyes of the beasts following the procession. A sturdy wooden farm gate dissected the road, a cattle grid running under it. Carson opened the gate, and they drove through in file, the procession pausing long enough for Brian to close the gate behind them. They drove past what looked like either a garage or storage shed, constructed of sheet metal with a wriggly tin rooftop, it’s covered front entrance running along the length of it open to the elements. Fifty meters or so beyond this and set back from the track was the main farmhouse, an east facing, two-storey building built of solid wood painted white, with a red tiled roof on top and another red tiled tiered roof running between the top and ground floor, providing shade and shelter to the wooden decking that ran around the ground floor. To the north of the farmhouse lay a traditionally constructed barn, built of red painted timber. Tucked away to the rear and left hand side of the barn was the water tower, a steel structure, pitted with streaks of rust, looking as old as the farm itself. The track terminated between the farmhouse and barn, forming a large oval of hard-packed earth. The farm was overlooked by rocky hilltops, strewn with large rocks and boulders.
Bradley came over the net, acknowledging that he had a visual on them, and reported that five men had made their way from the farmhouse to the barn, and that he believed about the same number again remained in the farmhouse. He also reported that two of them had left earlier in Cafferty’s land cruiser, wearing U.S. military fatigues, which had piqued Carson’s interest. Brian acknowledged him.
Carson scanned the numerous windows and rooftops, all the while keeping a close watch on the Sheriff. His emotional display when Brooke was explaining the facts of life to him may have been genuine, and maybe he had sincerely believed that the first daughter was not being held here against her will. Then again, perhaps he did know that she had been kidnapped, and he was a willing participant from the outset.
Either way, Carson didn’t trust the Sheriff as far as he could spit.
The three vehicles pulled up outside of the main farmhouse, crunching to a stop on the rocky hardtop. Carson winced inwardly as he noticed that Brooke and Brian had parked a good few metres away from each other as well as the Sheriff’s car and had parked them in such a way as to optimise their use for cover if the lead started flying at them, the three vehicles forming a loose horseshoe shape.
But then, it just might, for all he knew. If the good Sheriff was more involved than he was letting on, this farm audit ruse of his could be code from him to them, telling them they’ve been compromised.
‘Follow my lead, son,’ said the Sheriff as he hauled himself out of the driver’s door.
Carson stepped out the passenger side, biting back the compulsion to tell the sheriff what he made of being called son by the likes of him. He made an effort to appear calm and relaxed, as if this was just the mundane, day to day for him, while inwardly his skin was prickling as he tried not to dwell on the fact that he could, at that very moment, be lined up in a marksman’s crosshairs.
The Sheriff sauntered over towards the front door, as two men walked out of the farmhouse to meet him. One of them, who bore a passable resemblance to the actor Eric Bana to Carson’s eye, approached the Sheriff with his hand outstretched. The other man, with close cropped, mostly grey hair, who walked a few paces behind, Carson did recognise.
He swore under his breath.
It was Thomas Fenton, the secret service agent in charge of the detail when the first daughter had been taken. Carson remained a few paces back, now thankful for the Stetson hat, mirrored aviators, and even the ginger hair. Fenton will surely have seen his picture after Brown had exposed his cover back in Washington.
