CHAPTER 18

The MD-90 AIRLINER DUBBED Qīpiàn—"Deception"—took to the air at a steep angle, its aft-mounted International Aero V2500 engines humming through the hull and filling Peng's ears. It wasn't the sound of the engines that occupied his mind; it was what waited under the tarpaulin shrouds behind the seating area.

Shortly before liftoff, Peng learned he made a faulty assumption: The man in the white shirt and dark pants was not the pilot. He was Shang Xiao Jiang Tao. Colonel Jiang's smile disappeared shortly after the door to the aircraft was secured. He had hard almond eyes and a reputation to match. Although Peng had never met the man, never served under his direct command, he knew of the colonel's exploits. In the PLA, he was a hero, an example to all soldiers.

The disguise should not have surprised Peng. After all, he and his team were dressed like vacationing fishermen. The items in their duffle bags would give them away immediately, but no one would get close enough to peek in the canvas bags.

Once the cargo craft reached altitude and leveled off, its nose pointed toward the east, Jiang rose from his seat and faced Peng and his men.

"We have only a short time and there is much I need to tell you." He looked at Peng through those dark eyes. Did the man ever blink? "Know this, Captain, the mission is still yours. I am here to give you information we do not want transmitted over open lines, even encrypted lines. Understood?"

"Yes, Colonel." Peng kept eye contact. He was being judged and he wanted his superior to know he did not intimidate easily.

"You have seen what is under the tarpaulins. Are you familiar with them, Captain?"

"I have only seen them, Colonel. I have not trained with them, nor have my men."

"I will brief you. You will have, as they say in the West, on-the-job training. I will teach you what you need to know; the rest you will learn on the way down."

"On the way down" sounded ominous and theatrical. Peng had met men like Jiang before: They thrived on danger and enjoyed seeing fear in the eyes of others. Peng wouldn't give him the pleasure. "Yes, sir."

Jiang looked at his watch. "Let us not waste these precious moments. We have forty minutes before our left engine goes out and we lose hydraulics."

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand."

Jiang smiled and the sight of it chilled Peng.

STACY MOYER COULDN'T SIT. Sitting was the same as doing nothing and she had to do something, anything. She fought the urge to unload the dishwasher. The urge was natural and unnatural. Her mind wanted to focus on the mundane, the unimportant, the routine, as if pretending nothing bad has happened would mean nothing bad had happened. She couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, she paced. A female police detective sat on her sofa, fresh out of questions to ask. Stacy was weary of hearing, "We will do everything we can."

What difference did that make? Every second that passed meant finding Gina grew more difficult. A car traveling at sixty miles per hour put a mile under its wheels every minute: five minutes equaled five miles; ten minutes meant ten miles. It had been three hours. If someone took Gina and put her in a car, then they could be one hundred and eighty miles away, and with every mile, the search area grew exponentially.

"Mom, we need to talk."

"I don't want to talk; I want to find Gina." Stacy put an edge to the words.

"So do I, Mom."

"But we're not doing anything. The police aren't doing anything—"

Rob approached and took her in his arms. She tried to push him away. She didn't want to be comforted. Everything was wrong; every word irritating; every motion infuriating. She loved Rob down to the marrow of her bones, but his touch seemed toxic.

She tried to push him away again, but he'd have none of it. His arms wrapped around her like a straitjacket. She could feel the muscles in his thin arms tighten into a gentle squeeze. Again she tried to pull away but Rob held on.

Unreasoning resistance shattered like chalk in a vise. She shuddered. She convulsed. She sobbed, laying her head against her son's shoulder. In the last few hours, she had watched him go from often self-absorbed teenager to a man.

She let him hold her as tears and emotions poured from her. Water filled her eyes, mucus filled her nose, despair filled her heart.

"I made a call." Rob spoke softly, just a few decibels above a whisper.

"A call?" Her voice sounded raspy and muted against his shoulder.

"Yeah. I called Chaplain Bartley."

"He can't help. I don't need a sermon. I don't want a sermon."

"Mom, stop it. You know he's not coming over to preach."

"He's coming over? Tonight? Now?"

"Yeah. I got him out of bed. That's what he gets for giving me his cell number."

"You shouldn't have done that, Rob." Calmer now, she eased away from her son. "There's nothing he can do at this hour."

"He can be here. He's good at listening. He listened to me when I needed it, when I was being such a pain."

"But—"

"Mom, listen to me. You need to think. This may have something to do with Dad."

"Dad?" Detective Angie Wells, a middle-aged redhead, stood from the sofa. "I thought you said your father is out of town."

"We didn't, Detective." Rob offered nothing more.

Angie eyed them. "Could he have taken her?"

"No." Stacy drew a hand across her cheeks. "Not possible."

"You know if he did and you're protecting him—"

"We're not protecting him." Rob's tone revealed his impatience. "You don't understand."

"Then you'd better explain it to me."

"I can't."

A knock came at the door.

"That can't be Chaplain Bartley. I just called a few minutes ago." Rob moved across the living room and peered through the door's peephole. "It's Sergeant Crivello." Rob opened the door.

"I don't have any information," Crivello said quickly. "I'm sorry, but no word yet." He entered the house and gave a nod to Detective Wells. Rob closed the door behind him. "I've contacted Highway Patrol. The APB will alert all the other law enforcement agencies in the area. I've also made a run by the local hospitals."

"What about the canvassing?" Detective Wells said.

"We woke up a lot of people, but no one heard or saw anything." Crivello shook his head. "I'm sorry, but we're coming up zeros. I take it she hasn't called home."

"No." Stacy had to force the word out.

"Nothing on this end, Sergeant." Wells turned to Rob and Stacy. "They were just about to tell me about Gina's dad."

"He's not out of town?" Crivello sounded suspicious.

"We told you he was." Stacy bit her lip. "Sorry. I'm not at my best."

"That's understandable." Crivello look puzzled. "What's this about your husband, ma'am?"

Wells answered for her. "They say they can't talk about it."

Crivello's brow furrowed. "Why can't you . . . ?" The man looked around the living room as if secrets were written on the walls. His eyes fell to the coffee table. A stack of magazines rested on the surface.

Stacy followed his gaze to two interior design magazines, a periodical for gun lovers, and a news magazine.

"Is your husband in the military, ma'am?"

"He's a businessman," Rob said.

Crivello's smile was sympathetic. "You've been saying that for a lot of years haven't you, young man?"

Rob didn't answer.

"Look, we're not here to blow anyone's cover. All the detective and I want is to find your daughter."

Stacy looked into Rob's eyes and saw agreement. "Yes, my husband is military. How did you know?"

"Spent a few years in the Army. That's how I landed in South Carolina. I'm originally from central California. That and seeing a gun magazine and a conservative news magazine gave credence to my suspicion. That and having Fort Jackson so close. I'm going to make another guess. He's part of the Spec Ops group out of Jackson. Not many people know about that."

"I know I don't." Wells seemed put out.

"You're not supposed to know about it, Detective. It's a bit of a secret."

"But you know."

Crivello nodded. "Only because I had a couple of buddies who did something for the group. I still don't know what they did. They don't tell and I don't ask." He turned back to Stacy. "He's on mission now?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any reason to believe your daughter's disappearance might be related?"

"I don't see how. We never know when or where he's going. Sometimes all we get is a phone call. Gina certainly doesn't know any more than we do."

"What's your husband's name?"

"Eric. Sergeant Major Eric Moyer." Stacy swallowed hard. It hadn't occurred to her that Eric's mission and her daughter's disappearance might be connected.

Crivello looked at Wells and waited.

"What?"

"I don't want to interfere with your investigation, but you might want to ask who the sergeant major's commanding officer is."

"Because . . ."

"Because he needs to know about the girl's disappearance; because he may have a way of informing Mr. Moyer; and because he may know something useful."

Detective Wells seemed embarrassed.

"Colonel MacGregor," Stacy said.

"Does he have a first name?" Wells pulled a smartphone from the pocket of her pantsuit.

Stacy shrugged. "I don't know. Eric just calls him Colonel Mac or Mac. I've never heard a first name."

"I don't suppose you have a number?"

"No, sorry."

Rob said, "Chaplain Bartley might have it. He should be here soon."

"Then we'll wait on him." Wells sat on the sofa again.

Could there be a connection between Eric's mission and Gina's disappearance? The thought terrified her. If it were true, then Gina was in the hands of some very dangerous people.

THE PHONE FOR FORMER Sergeant First Class Jerry "Data" Zinsser, now special agent for USACIC—United States Army Criminal Investigation Command—rang, launching Zinsser a foot above the bed.

He let it ring twice more before answering, mostly to allow himself a moment to slow his heart. He snapped up the receiver and glanced at the clock: a few minutes after two in the morning.

He put the hand piece to his ear. "Someone had better be dead."

"I hope not."

There was no humor in the comeback. It took a moment for him to recognize the voice. "Paul?"

"You weren't asleep, were you?"

"At two in the morning? Of course not. I was doing push-ups and reading War and Peace. Is your brother all right?"

"As far as I know." Tension permeated Chaplain Paul Bartley's voice. "Look. Bad news. Eric Moyer's daughter is missing and the police think she's been abducted."

Zinsser sat up, now wide awake. "What?"

"Rob Moyer called. Gina didn't come home. They found one of her textbooks and her cell phone in the street. I'm headed over there now. Is there anything you can do?"

"I'm on my way."

Five minutes later, Special Agent Jerry Zinsser was in a pair of tan pants, a dress shirt, and blue Windbreaker with the emblem of an eagle perched over a gold shield. CID was printed over the front left breast. In a holster on his hip was a 9mm, M11, Sig Sauer P228 sidearm.

Zinsser had been to several of Eric Moyer's famous backyard beer and barbecue gatherings so he needed no directions.

On the way a flood of memories, most unwanted, crashed like storm waves on his mind. Zinsser was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for valor displayed in the Somali backwater town of Kismayo. He saved lives that day but almost lost his mind in the process. Flashbacks plagued him to such an extent he nearly killed the leader of his new team: Eric Moyer. His post-traumatic stress disorder almost cost more lives than he saved.

Moyer could have dropped him from the mission—Moyer should have dropped him and pressed charges for more violations of the Code Military of Justice than could be imagined. Moyer didn't. He saw something in Zinsser he didn't see in himself.

Still his actions cost him. He could no longer work foreign missions, but because of his bravery and the fact he helped save the president's life, Zinsser was given a new start as a special agent with Army CID.

Memories swirled in his head and every one brought him a new, cutting pain. It was like standing in a blizzard of razor blades. He tried not to think of his failings. Chaplain Paul Bartley and others helped him focus on the good he did, not what his disorder caused him to do.

One thing was certain: He owed Eric Moyer big time. If Moyer's family needed help, then he would do anything and give anything to be there for them.

Zinsser pressed the accelerator to the floor and made hash of the South Carolina vehicle codes.

PAUL BARTLEY PULLED TO a stoplight and dialed his phone. He had another call to make.

The phone rang and a weary man answered. "Fort Jackson, Corporal White speaking, may I help you?"

"Corporal, this is Chaplain Paul Bartley. I need to speak to Colonel MacGregor."

"But, sir, it's just after two in the morning. The colonel will have me skinned."

"I didn't call for the time, Corporal. This is an emergency. You can either give me his home number or patch me through; I don't care which as long as it happens in the next few seconds."

"Yes, sir."

Bartley waited a few moments, then a gruff voice poured from the phone. "It's never a good thing when a minister calls at 2 a.m. What's wrong?"

"It's Gina, Eric Moyer's daughter."

"Oh no."

Bartley explained as he drove.