“The Mafia? Interesting. And where are the parents now?”
“No one knows. Agent Pine has been looking for them, too.”
“Their mother must be formidable to have worked against the Mafia at such a tender age.”
“I believe she was very scared, but did her duty. But her work came at a high personal cost.”
“I assume she or their father was tall?”
“She was six feet tall. Agent Pine told me. She did some work as a model, in fact.”
Buckley nodded. “And both daughters are tall, strong—fierce, even, with exemplary fighting skills. I saw Mercy Pine’s handiwork. I assume her sister is equally talented. I saw the Wikipedia page. She almost made the women’s Olympic weightlifting team. Impressive.”
“Both sisters have had to overcome a great deal of adversity.”
“Good, good. However, I doubt that your Agent Pine has ever been physically tortured, as her sister has?”
“No, I don’t believe so. But why in the world does that matter to you?”
“Being able to endure pain is a source of great strength, I believe. It gives one an edge over another. Perhaps the critical edge.”
“I suppose so, but, again, I don’t see the relevancy.”
“But you don’t have to, Ms. Blum. Because I do.”
“I’m not getting out of here alive, am I?”
“No, you’re not. And neither are the Pine sisters.”
Blum now looked alarmed. “They’re not here, are they?”
He rose and tapped the bars with his finger, gracing her with an eager look.
“Not yet.”
CHAPTER
62
BRITT SPECTOR HAD TO ADMIT the scheme was brilliant. And risky. That didn’t lessen the brilliance; it just made the plan more complicated. And special. Her admiration for Buckley had been displaced by a growing concern for the man. He was taking all of this far too personally. She understood that it was his brother. But it seemed to have evolved into a personal grudge that was now devolving into a terrible, looming confrontation. And she was uncertain of the exact shape it would take.
She had walked the grounds of the compound. Knowing the geography of a place was critical, if you wanted to make it out the other end. She had great faith in Peter Buckley, but when things went sideways with something like this, they often went terribly wrong. And then faith was just a word. A useless one. Then you were on your own.
This was her first time here. The place was rugged, imposing. If you didn’t know what you were doing, survival out here would not be easy.
He had never spoken of the place. She knew some of Buckley’s background, and she had researched the history of this place once she learned where they were heading. His childhood had been as unusual and potentially as damaging as her own. So how could she judge the man harshly?
She stared out at the distant mountain range, and the less distant foothills. Canyons had been carved in the earth here by once mighty rivers that had vanished over time. She had driven all over this land after they’d arrived, getting a feel for it, trying to understand its secrets. Because one just never knew, did one?
She headed to the new two-story building where, Buckley had told her, the old hay barn had once stood.
A team was already there setting up the structure inside it.
The steel posts had been sunk into the dirt and reinforced with concrete footers. The chain-link perimeter fence was being strung along these posts. It rose ten feet.
She patted one of the posts; it didn’t give an inch. Cement shoes on a dead man. Buckley had thought of it all.