I close my eyes, forcing myself to memorize the man’s voice, the inflections, the slight accent, and I do my best to tamp down the emotions roaring through me, from fear to terror to pure hate.
“All right,” I say.
He says, “I know there are instructions for you, left on your dining room table. Those instructions are not a joke. If we get any indication that you have contacted any law enforcement agency, either civilian or military, then you will never hear back from us, and you will never see your husband or daughter again.”
“Who is the prisoner?” I ask.
The man says, “Let’s just say one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter, and leave it at that.”
“Where is this man?” I go on, eyes still closed, still working the problem. “Where in Three Rivers?”
“Do you agree to this task?”
The black hate in me that’s been stirred up by this man wants me to scream, What choice do you think I have, asshole?
But I keep it professional.
Trying to keep my voice calmer than my mind, I say, “I need assurances that my husband and daughter are safe.”
The man says, “That sounds reasonable. Hold on.”
I put the Ruger on the table, push a finger into my other ear, try to see if I can hear anything going on, anything that will help me later.
Nothing.
Another male voice comes on the phone, and this voice nearly buckles my knees. It’s clear but filled with emotion.
“Amy,” my husband says, his voice strained but tired. “Denise and I are just fine.”
I dig my finger deeper into my ear, focusing hard on listening for any sounds in the background that might provide a clue to where Tom is calling from.
But I don’t hear anything useful.
I ask, “Tom, what’s the day today?”
He sounds puzzled. “It’s Tuesday.”
A murmur and the other man comes back on the line. “What was that all about?”
I open my eyes, and the safe and happy dining room seems to mock me.
“I needed to know that my husband’s voice wasn’t a recording,” I say. “I have the assurance. I’ll perform your task. What’s the address?”
“Linden Street, Three Rivers, Texas. Number forty-six.”
“What’s the prisoner’s name?”
The caller pauses, just for the briefest of seconds.
Why?
He goes on. “His name can change from month to month. It makes no difference to you successfully doing your job. You’ll know him when you see him. He’ll be the one without a weapon.”
“Why is he being held? What has he done?”
The man says, “Captain, please. Will that make any difference to you? If he made car bombs in Afghanistan, or shot up a school in Pakistan, or dropped an airliner over the Sudan, will you still not free him to retrieve your family?”
I keep my mouth shut. I’m ashamed that he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
He clears his throat. “There’s a pre-programmed number in the phone. That will be your only means of contacting me, but I only expect two more phone calls from you via that number: one telling me that you’ve retrieved the prisoner, and one when you have arrived at the exchange site. Phone calls begging for more time, for more flexibility, for another chance to speak to your husband or daughter—those will be ignored. Is that clear?”
“Quite clear,” I say.
“All right.”
Another quick pause, and then he chuckles, again with the slight accent I can’t place. “Isn’t this the point where you warn me that you’ll kill me if anything happens to your husband and daughter?”
“No,” I say.
“Really?”
I say sharply, “Yeah. Really. You want to know why?”
“Of course,” he says.
“Because I don’t have the goddamn time to waste.”
And I hang up on him.
CHAPTER 3
AFTER DISCONNECTING the call, I check the burner’s screen and memorize the ten-digit phone number.
I look away to the far wall, jam-packed with photos of me in full battle rattle in Afghanistan and Iraq, Tom in his reporter’s gear somewhere in Venezuela, our wedding photo from Bar Harbor, photos of the two of us with an increasingly taller and older Denise, and I repeat the number under my breath three times, look back at the burner phone.
Exact match.
I’ll never forget that number—not now, not ever.
I pick up the Ruger, drop the burner phone in my jacket pocket, and get to work.
Upstairs first, to our bedroom, where I fling open the closet door and retrieve a black zippered duffel bag with two carrying straps from a locked trunk. My go bag, filled with spare clothes, water, rations, cash, a SIG Sauer P320, and other items. Tom’s go bag is in there as well, and when we first moved in three years back, I was surprised he didn’t give me any pushback about having a go bag prepared.
“Amy,” he said, while we were washing dishes together, “I’ve been grabbing an airplane, boat, or train to get to a story for years. Don’t worry about me. I know the drill.”
But one of us didn’t know the drill, and I often hoped she would never learn it. Nestled behind Tom’s duffel bag is a pink-and-white Minnie Mouse knapsack, which I’ve never told Denise about and which I’ve always maintained. My ten-year-old daughter’s go bag, to quickly go with Mom and Dad in case of disaster, natural or man-made. Denise’s mom, determined to protect her daughter, no matter what.
And Denise’s mom, a failure.
For a moment I grab one of Tom’s shirts, bring it to my face. Tom doesn’t smoke and doesn’t wear cologne, but his scent is here, and I rub a sleeve against my face—so many memories rushing in, from first kisses to the birth of Denise and our many moves across the country.
Then I slam the closet door shut before I break down and lose my focus. I can’t lose my focus.
I just can’t.
I race downstairs and damn it all to hell, a phone rings and it’s mine, stashed in my soft leather briefcase, and I’m tempted to ignore it while I prep to get the hell going, but suppose—just suppose—it’s good news?
Tom was a tough reporter and is now a tough writer, working on a nonfiction book. I know he wouldn’t sit back and be a nice, cooperative prisoner. He would fight back. He would look for means and ways of escape. He would—
I drop my iPhone on the floor, think, Tom, Tom, Tom, as I grab it and pick it up.
CHAPTER 4
WITH MY iPhone finally firmly in my hand, I see the name on the screen.
BRUNO WENNER
Damn, of all times.
Bruno is a major assigned to my unit, the executive officer to my boss, Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Denton.
The phone keeps on ringing.
I should let it go to voice mail, but Bruno’s a good guy who’s backed me up and helped me along in navigating the increasingly bureaucratic world of an eighteenth-century organization adjusting to one very challenging and strange twenty-first century.
I slide my finger across the screen, bring the phone up to my ear.
“Cornwall.”