Until that moment, Jonathan had forgotten that Gail was involved with the Branch Davidian raid in Waco back in the day. She had street cred when it came to cults and nut-job militias. “They establish a school so that the government can’t use truancy as an excuse to shut them down. They don’t register their children for the record because they don’t have to. For a lot of these groups, the driving goal is to remain invisible all the time.”
“So why no graduation?” Boxers prompted.
Gail offered a one-shoulder shrug. “I can’t say for sure, but we investigated a Utah group that made it a point of faith never to leave the compound where they lived and bred. We’re talking two or three generations here that had never been beyond the fence.”
Boxers gaped. “You’re shitting me. Who would agree to that?”
Venice wondered, “Is it that much different from any exclusive and devout religious sect? If it’s not physically isolating, it can certainly be intellectually isolating.”
“This is irrelevant,” Jonathan said. “I doubt that they’ve got the Nasbes in the school with everyone else. What we need is to find out where they do have them, and then get them out.”
Venice said, “I took the liberty of asking Lee Burns to re-task SkysEye to give us a picture, but he warns that it’s going to take longer than normal. He happens to be swamped, but he’ll get us a link as soon as he can.”
Jonathan said, “Did you emphasize-”
“-that a life is in the balance, yes. I didn’t, however, mention the link to your friend Boomer. You didn’t give me permission, and I know that it’s sensitive.”
“Maybe you should,” Boxers said.
Jonathan shook his head. “No, if Lee could do it, he would. Add Boomer to the mix, and it just adds guilt.”
“So, what are our options?” Boxers asked, clearly disagreeing. “Slinging a little guilt seems like a way better option than knocking on doors. ‘Excuse me,’ ” he mocked, “ ‘but are you harboring any kidnapped families? We’d like ever so much to have them back.’ ”
“There’s always another way,” Jonathan said.
“What about Rollins?” Gail asked.
“Absolutely not,” Boxers said. “I’m not gonna be beholding to him for nothin’.”
“Seems like a way better option than knocking on doors,” she countered with a smirk. “What is the big problem between you all anyway?”
“No,” Jonathan said, effectively shutting down the issue. “We’re not discussing that. Not here. Not now.” He steadied himself with a big breath. “Ven, you’ve got Rollins’s card. Get him on the horn.”
Venice didn’t hesitate as she disappeared off screen to work a different phone.
Boxers seemed to expand with anger.
“Dig-”
“Mission first, Box,” he said. “Everything is second to the mission. The Nasbes need every resource we can muster. Period. Ven?”
“I’m patching him through now,” she said. Then, almost at a whisper: “It’s like he was waiting for us.” There was a click, then: “You’re on with Digger and the team, Colonel.”
“Is the line secure?” Rollins asked.
“Encrypted,” Venice said. “That’s why I placed the call. We’re scrambling it.”
Which meant, Jonathan knew, that anyone who had access to the right technology, and wanted the information badly enough would be able to listen to and understand anything they wanted to.
“This is your op, Grave,” the colonel said. “Tell me what you need.”
It took Jonathan all often minutes to do just that.
Christyne was in a place beyond fear, beyond terror or despair. She was terrified for herself, and she was terrified for Ryan. Clearly, he had been caught, and no one would tell her what had been done with him. No one would tell her anything about anything, in fact. After the smash and grab in her little cell of a room in the basement, she’d lost consciousness.
When she awoke, she was blind, although she was fairly certain it was from something wrapped around her eyes, rather than the actual loss of her sight. Her eyes felt glued down, and when she squinted, she could feel the stickiness on her cheeks, too. In her mind, she’d been bound with duct tape, but how could she know for sure?
Her arms had been bound, as well-behind her, and so tightly that her hands were numb. Her feet were likewise tied together, as were her knees. The net effect was a near-total paralysis that had quickly morphed into an ache and then a screaming pain in her shoulders, hips, neck, and knees. She believed that she was lying on her left side, but even that was not a certainty. Such was the disorientation that comes from having no visual reference to key off of.
The surface on which she lay was hard, but not especially cold, and from time to time, when she heard a door open or close, the sound seemed to echo, leading her to believe that she was in a big room, or maybe just one with a tall ceiling. If the thought weren’t so absurd, she might have guessed that she was inside a church.
Wherever they’d deposited her, they’d made sure that her head was unsupported, and that her body was under constant strain. If they were going to kill her, she wished they’d just hurry up and get it over with. She supposed those are the thoughts of every torture victim.
The door opened again, seemingly far away, and this time it remained open for a long time-long enough for the cold air from outside to roll to her, triggering a chill. When the door finally closed, the room returned to silence again.
Then there were footsteps.
They sounded heavy, so she assumed them to belong to a man. Clearly, they were approaching her, each tick of sound just slightly louder than the one that preceded it. He said nothing as he approached, and his gait seemed abnormally slow, as if he were intentionally trying to intimidate her. It was working.
When the footsteps finally stopped, they seemed very close. When he remained silent, Christyne wondered if it was a test of wills to see who would speak first. “Who’s there?” she asked.
“You killed one of my soldiers,” the man said.
Christyne said nothing. She’d heard this tone only a few times in her life, and it was always tied to impending violence. She sensed that nothing she said could take the edge off his anger.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked.
“Where is Ryan? Where is my son?”
The man let out a roar, an animal sound of pure anger or perhaps anguish. It shook the room, and continued to echo for a full second when he had finished. “Is that really all you have to offer?” he shouted. “Is that really all you have to say after you murder one of my best men? You want to know what became of the man who murdered him?”
“He didn’t murder him!” Christyne cried. Something inside her seemed to have broken, and her own anguish poured out in her words. “Your soldier was attacking me. Ryan protected me. He didn’t intend to kill that young man. Ryan couldn’t hurt a soul. Please don’t hurt him.”
Silence returned, and then the footsteps started approaching her again. They were smaller steps this time, and as he got very near to her, she thought perhaps that she could see a shadow fall across her eyes.
“So it was he who killed him,” the man said. “Thank you for verifying that.”
“No,” she said quickly. “That’s not what I meant.” Her heart and her brain both raced to find a way to undo the damage. How could she have been so stupid? “I didn’t mean that he was the one who killed him.”
“But that’s what you said.”
“I know. I-” Words were gone now, replaced with blind fear and guilt and shame. She heard herself sobbing, trying to beg for mercy, but all that came out was noise.
“That’s all right,” the man said. His tone took a softer edge to it. “It wouldn’t have mattered in the end. Dead is dead, and someone has to pay.”
“Not Ryan,” Christyne begged. “No, please, please not Ryan. He’s just a boy.”
“Not anymore,” the man said. He place something heavy and wet on the floor near her. It made a dull thump as it hit.
“What?” Christyne begged. “Oh, my God, what is that?” Jesus, was that blood she smelled?
“We’d have killed him anyway,” the voice said.
She gasped. This isn’t possible. Please, God, don’t let this be possible.
“I thought you might like to have a chat with him.” “What? What did you do? Oh, my God, what did you
