voices, both of them picked up from encrypted telephone conversations. I leaned on a friend at the NSA to program a computer to monitor every telephone conversation coming out of Maddox County, West Virginia, looking for certain key words that we thought were important.”
Gail’s mind reeled. If the New York Times ever got wind of this, the jail time would be the least of their worries.
Jonathan placed his hand on hers and brought his lips close to her ear. “Remember the end game,” he whispered.
Rollins continued, “The first voice you hear-the one that wants to just kill the captives and dispose of the bodies outright-comes from a cell phone that traces to a location outside the compound. I can send you a map if you want, but I don’t think the location itself is in play. Because we’re dealing with cell phones, we can only get within so many yards of the signal, but our friends at Fort Meade narrowed it down to a residential street that happens to be where Sheriff Kendig Neen resides. We printed the signal against a known recording, and we came up with a four-nines reliability quotient.”
“Four-nines” meant ninety-nine point nine-nine percent likelihood that the voice belonged to the person they suspected.
“The other voice-and there are only two in this recording-traces back to a location where there happens to be only one structure within a half-mile radius. Watch your screen.”
The picture moved rapidly and then the camera settled onto a familiar sight.
“That’s the home of Michael Copley,” Jonathan said.
“So you’ve been busy,” Rollins said. “You’re exactly right. I’ll run the recording now. It’s truncated at the beginning because it takes a few seconds for the computer software to kick in. Okay, here we go.”
Jonathan listened to more movement, and then the quality of the sound changed to the characteristic scratchiness of a telephone recording. As promised, this one picked up in the middle of an ongoing discussion.
“… we decided this. You keep walking out to the edge like this, and it’s going to fall away. If you’re going to kill them, do it and be done with it.” The voice had a buttery baritone quality that would have been appropriate for a radio broadcaster. “The rest is just unnecessary. It’s getting disgusting. It’s one thing to execute, but it’s another to torture and maim. Did you see what you did to the kid’s arm?”
“This is not your call to make,” the second voice-the one belonging to Michael Copley-said. “They killed one of my soldiers. They need to pay.”
“I don’t disagree, Brother Michael. Say the word and I’ll take care of it myself. But you need to do it quietly. This Internet broadcasting stuff is just going to bring trouble to all of us.”
“The world needs to know that we cannot be fought,” Copley said.
“The world doesn’t even know who the hell we are,” Neen protested. “And the less they know, the better off we’re going to be.”
“They killed Brother Stephen. Killed him.”
Neen sighed audibly. “And we will punish in kind. We can do it publicly within the community, but I’m begging you not to turn this into a show on the Internet. I begged you last time, and now I’m begging you again. It’s too much of a risk. It will anger people, and they will be all that more determined to identify us and bring us down.”
Copley laughed. “Given what we have done, and what we are about to do, I believe that horse has long left the barn.”
“Think of the data trail, then. Why take the additional risk when we don’t need to?”
“Because the world needs to know.”
“No, they don’t!” Neen railed. “Brother Michael, we have our cause, and our cause is just. We’re wreaking terror, and the blame is being cast on the Muslim heathens. All that we’ve worked for and all that we’ve built is finally coming to fruition. With all respect, sir, this grandstanding is putting that at risk. Forgive me for saying so, but that’s irresponsible.”
“Don’t lecture me, Sheriff.” Copley’s tone darkened.
“I’m not lecturing you, Brother Michael. I’m trying to understand what you’re doing. I thought we agreed when I dropped him off that he was too valuable to kill. His father is a commando, for heaven’s sake. Surely we can use that to our benefit.”
“Indeed we will,” Copley said.
Neen paused long enough that Jonathan wondered if the recording had ended. Finally, the sheriff said, “What are you telling me?”
“Be at the house at seven,” Copley said. “I’ll reveal the plan to all of the elders then.”
“Can we discuss the wisdom of the execution at the meeting?”
“If you still believe that there’s anything to discuss at the conclusion of the meeting, then you are free to bring up whatever you wish.”
The audio clicked again and Rollins’s voice returned. “That’s all of it,” he said.
Boxers asked, “How long ago was this recorded?”
“Less than a half hour. Call it twenty, twenty-five minutes.”
“What else do you have for us?” Jonathan asked.
“Nothing of note,” Rollins said. “But we’ll keep listening. If we get anything, we’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” Jonathan said.
Venice recognized the thank-you for the signal that it was and she dumped Rollins’s call. The team was on its own again.
Venice said, “I’m going to put this on a disk and have Dom deliver it to Wolverine. She needs to know.”
“She won’t be able to act on it,” Jonathan cautioned.
Boxers added, “And if she does, she’ll have to throw us under the bus.”
“She needs to know,” Venice said again.
CHAPTER TWENTY – TWO
Ryan couldn’t stop shivering.
He was sick of pain and cold and darkness. He didn’t know how much more he could take. From what he saw in the brief seconds when he’d had a chance to survey the place in the light spilled from the hallway, it was a concrete storage room, maybe ten feet square. There was stuff in there, but he hadn’t taken the time to really note what it was. It looked like stuff you’d find in any attic, stacked haphazardly and precariously, but leaving enough room on the concrete floor for him to plant his butt and nurse his arm.
Part of him was glad he couldn’t see. He’d seen broken bones before-on himself, even, when he’d broken the opposite arm in a skateboarding accident-and they were gross. Seeing the way the bones bent only made it hurt more, and more pain was one thing that he definitely did not need in his life.
One of his captors had been thoughtful enough to let him bring the pillow with him when they paraded him downstairs to his new prison. In fact, it was Colleen, K-girl’s real name. Except here, she was Sister Colleen.
Sitting Indian-style with his legs crossed and the pillow on his lap was about his only option to keep the pain under control. Problem was, the awkward posture put a lot of strain on his shoulders and neck, which were beginning to ache.
What was he going to do now?
He rested his forehead on his good hand, which itself was propped against his thigh, and he tried not to cry. How the hell could a trip home from a track meet have ended with this much trouble, this much hopelessness?
Brother Michael was a nutcase. There’d be no reasoning with him. Even if reasoning with him was possible, what would he bargain over? Ryan didn’t even know why he was here. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong.
Except killing that guy, but that was after.
Maybe this was just pure random bad luck, in which case Ryan wanted nothing to do with it. Maybe this was God working his mysterious ways, just as his mom always liked to talk about.
Tell you what, God. Keep your mysterious ways. How about getting off your ass and coughing up a solution?
