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“Stay behind me, don’t talk unless they ask you something directly, and if anything happens, justrun. You got it?”
Hank nodded. They took a few paces into the church, a modern design with long, broad pews on either side of a purple-carpeted aisle. The altar table, covered with a white cloth that touched the floor, stood beneath two stained-glass windows. In the morning sunlight, it was warm and smelled faintly of dust and upholstery.
But there was not a soul to be seen.
“We’ve got the right place?” Hank asked, but before Ridge could growl his reply, they saw a black object on top of the altar. Hurrying to the spot, blood pumping, they found that it was an old-fashioned cellphone, flipped open, laid on its back. A contact was displayed — seemingly the only one in its phonebook — named ‘CALL ME.’
Anger gave way to confusion, then a sudden welling up of fear.Something’s wrong. He touched the green button and the call connected. “Who is this?” he asked.
“I don’t think that it matters much who I am, Ridge,” came a deep voice with a faint Southern accent. “I think it matters much more who I’mwith.”
There was a scuffling sound, then a female voice, crying and terrified. “Ridge?”
His blood froze. “Raven?” Hank stared at him, ashen-faced, wide-eyed, helpless, his worst fears now realized.
The male voice returned. “Your buddy Hank seems to think we accept layaway,” it said. “He knows what he owes. He knows we are not patient. Call us when it’sallready.” The voice fell silent to let Ridge hear hysterical crying in the background. “I’d say she has twenty-three hours left.” Then the line went dead.
The church boomed with the loudest, most unforgiveable language imaginable.
Then, he tried to breathe slower.Focus.Get help and focus.
He brought out his phone. In the end, the simplest version was all he could manage.
“Ridge, are you OK?”
“No, Corbett...Theytookher.”
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Antonio countedfour cars in the lot as he brought his Land Cruiser to a halt in a cloud of dust. Three of the vehicles were familiar; the other, he supposed, belonged to their ‘special consultant’ for this particular mission. Stepping out of the car, he stretched after four hours behind the wheel and slicked back his thinning black hair. The trip had been smooth, although undertaken at virtually no notice.
Corbett came out of the small one-story building to meet him. “Thanks for coming, boss. Everyone’s inside.” Reflexively, Corbett scanned the road, which ran north-south across this remote property; anyone making an approach, he knew, would kick up enough dust to be seen for miles. A team guarded the perimeter, just to be sure, making this as secure a location as they were going to find.
“You got Samuelson and Dawson?” Antonio asked, having already memorized the case file. Corbett nodded. “Good. Did they do anything stupid yet?”
“They’re playing ball, sir,” Corbett reassured his supervisor. “I gotta say, I’m impressed that Ridge hasn’t flown off the handle. When this happened...” He shook his head. “Well, we’re lucky he learned some self-control in the service. I can’t even imagine what he might have done.”
They stepped inside the small farmhouse, a sun-bleached, dust-bowl era place surrounded by derelict acres. Although the interior had been converted to provide a simple, functional safehouse for the DEA, the large barn across the lot was now a dilapidated ruin. At least they had the air conditioning running, Antonio noted, and was doubly grateful when he was handed a cold soda. “Some introductions... Guys? This is Special Agent in Charge Antonio Gomez from the Houston Division Office of the DEA. He’s my boss,” Corbett said without fanfare. “Sir, you know Detective Lewis and his team,” he added, motioning to three men who were glued to the screen of a laptop in the corner. “This is Hank Samuelson, brother of the v...”
“The hostage,” Gomez said for him. “Pleased to meet you, Hank. Don’t you worry none. It’s quite the crack team we’ve got here. And this,” he said, sizing up the surly figure sitting alone in the corner, “must be Chief Petty Officer Ridge Dawson, US Navy, retired.”
Gomez waited for Ridge to approach him, and when he didn’t, strode over to shake his hand. “Do I call you Ridge, or what?”
“Just don’t call him Rambo,” Lewis offered. “He don’t like that one bit.”
Gomez allowed himself to laugh. “Glad to meet you, Dawson. I hear you’re going to be assisting us with this mission, is that right?”
“That’s right,” he said. In his own mind, though, Ridge pictured his role as something considerably more than ‘assisting.’ In fact, ‘assassinating’ might have been closer. Not since his time in the service had he found his head crowded with so many, and such varied, thoughts of the most sadistic, limitless violence. He knew, though, that no DEA team would bring along an outside consultant with mental health issues, no matter how impressive their resumé. It had not even been established if Ridge would carry a weapon.
“Well, I’ve read enough to know that we can trust you to keep cool, and to help us keep Raven safe.”
Ridge seemed to brush this aside. “Sir, I have a question.”
“Shoot,” replied Gomez.
“If this is preparation for a hostage rescue,” he asked, “why aren’t we calling in a larger assault team? Why,” he continued, glancing around, “justus?”
Gomez took a seat opposite Ridge under the small, dirty window that lit this part of the former living room. “Ridge, on any other rescue, we’d bring everyone we thought we might need. Could be a hundred guys. But this is different. Corbett, I don’t know how much you want me to say here.”
