The Elite

The clearing near the top of the mountain was dark, surrounded by twisted shadows of trees in the moonlight. A baleful, yellow moon lit the center. The terrified girl tottered into the clearing on her flimsy, sandals, held upright by the huge, dirty hands crushing her slender arms. She would have fallen if not for their support; she was starved, dehydrated and nauseous from the chloroform and the small puncture wounds near her delicate ankle, inflicted by an irritated snake of questionable pedigree, who'd been rebelliously sharing the shack that served as her prison. She looked elegant and immaculately groomed as she was paraded across the clearing in the deceptive moonlight; up close the bruises on her slender wrists and ankles were evident, as were the fading large bruise on her pale cheek, her dry, cracked lips and the smears of filth, vomit and blood on her clothes. Her face was slack, her blue eyes huge with terror, her once-beautiful blonde hair dry and brittle from the rough scrubbing with the crude lye soap she'd been forced to endure. She looked at the circle of strange faces that now surrounded her; rough, crude, some misshapen and mutated, eerie eyes glittering, feral mouths gaping in anticipation...of what her dazed mind refused to speculate. * * * * Lisa woke, gasping for breath beneath the dusty sack over her face. Dust flew into her lungs. She coughed and managed a wheezing breath. Her eyes burned from the chaff, but her hands and feet were tied and she wasn't able to rub them. She was dimly aware of an invasive hand probing at her roughly. She tried to scream, but all she could manage was a tortured breath. Her lungs burned as she struggled. She dimly heard laughter and a gruff voice, inhaled a cloying, musky chemical and passed out before she could vomit. * * * * In the early spring, Marsh forced himself to return to the ranch. Nick joined him on the weekend; worried about his mentor. The strain the big man was under was evident. The two sat out late on the covered patio, in silence until Harris appeared to refill the brandy decanter. “Just leave the bottle, Harris,” Marsh broke the silence. “Certainly, Sir.” The butler vanished as silently as he came. “I’ve been avoiding this place,” Marsh finally admitted. “Alex and Lisa are still here; I keep expecting to see them in every corner. I never realized how happy I was then, Nick. I haven’t been happy since; busy as hell, but not happy.” Nick was dealing with his own loss and painful memories, although his expression was unreadable. “I know exactly how you feel, Sir. Didn’t Kate come with you?” Marsh’s smile was sardonic and slightly slack-jawed due to the brandy. He managed a chuckle. “Katie? Perish the thought; this place is far too rural; she’s under the impression that this is just one enormous barn.” “You’re better off,” Nick muttered. “Maybe you need to be here, Marsh. Kate and the business demand too much of you, even without this current situation. Harris says you aren’t sleeping and I’ve never known you to drink like this. He tells me you’ve been having chest pains.” Marsh’s mouth quirked at one corner and he looked at his protégée. “Harris has a big mouth and you’re matching me drink for drink, Nick.” The tall, blond man smiled enough for his dimples to show; a rare occurrence these days. “Touché,” he answered. “It’s Harris’s job to look after you, not me. Promise me you’ll see a doctor, Marsh.” “I can take of myself, Nick. You just find my little girl before someone hurts her.” The Elites and the 12th-level-op department heads held a conference in Marsh's office, beneath the portrait of the sunny, smiling girl watching them out of her amber-colored eyes. Nick glanced at it too often. The Elites, all handsome, with stunning, muscled bodies; all intelligent, highly trained and deadly, sat around the table, each expert in their own special field. They reviewed the case thoroughly. "The only hard facts we have are the sunglasses, the engine that the clerk heard and her cell phone signal," Jamie, the High-Level Elite who served as Martial Arts Master when he wasn't on loan to Interpol, summarized. "There weren't any clear tire tracks in the alley; it‘s a delivery alley and a lot of big vehicles had access, so although we know some kind of vehicle was out there, we can't identify it. The glasses prove nothing; she might have just dropped them," Jamie continued. "Lisa wouldn't have just left them there," Nick said quietly, not adding that he'd given them to her. Jamie's partner, Chopper, addressed Spy. "Can't we track the cell phone signal? Did you try?" The Japanese Technical Director shook his head. "Of course I tried! The signal bounced all over the damn mountain ranges. It was impossible to pinpoint. Couldn't the CSI unit come up with anything useful in that alley?" "We sifted that alley for three days; all we came up with were scuff marks and a sizeable amount of her hair strands; she was grabbed hard enough by the hair to pull it out." Digger, the bearded CSI unit commander, rubbed his shaved head reflectively and shot a furtive glance at Brandon. "There had to be more than one," Shotgun verified. The dark-haired, dark-eyed Elite was a trained assassin and recon expert. "The clerk heard the engine right after Lisa went out the door, so someone was in the truck and I'm betting two of them either knocked her cold or drugged her." Brandon rose suddenly and paced the floor like a caged panther. "Enough!" he ordered tersely. "We all agree that she was taken by force and driven somewhere. Where and by whom?" "We've been over this time and again, we're just chasing our tails," Josh's soft Virginia accent broke the silence. “Y’all know what Trip says about people who do that." Jamie laughed, his green eyes still grave. "They end up chewing on their own ass," he finished. "Where the hell is Trippy anyway? I thought he was on his way." "I don't know where Trip is," Brandon bit out. He leaned his tall frame on the edge of the table. "Trippy is never on time," Chip, the surveillance expert put in. "He always shows up when and where you least expect him." Brandon clenched his jaw. Trip was the only Elite who repeatedly tested his legendary control. "I don't care how damned good he is. He should know better than to hold up a conference this important." His gray eyes flashed angrily. "Calm down, Boss, you'll have a stroke," a familiar voice said and Brandon looked up to see his top Ace Elite sitting calmly on the far corner of Marsh's desk, munching chips. He addressed the group. "You guys all talk too much." Brandon eyed his deadliest, most talented and sought after operative. "Just how long have you been sitting there?" "Hmmm, about half a bagful. So what's the big emergency ?” "Much as it irks me to feed your already over-sized ego, I think we need your help with this one," Brandon told his top Ace. Trippy slid off the desk and wandered over to the table. Nearly 6 feet tall, the ruthless 21-year-old looked about 16; the careless day-old growth of fawn-colored beard along his jaw only enhancing the unpredictable aura he radiated. His classic features were angelically beautiful until he smiled, producing deep dimples in both cheeks.His deceptively baggy clothes hid an incredibly sculpted, powerfully muscled body that he had absolute control of. Trippy looked at Lisa's portrait for long minutes and his angelic face showed no expression, then he fixed his celestite-blue eyes on his boss.