There was a momentary silence while the gunner pondered fresh alternatives, another way to work his scam. When he resumed, his tone was thoughtful, introspective.
"What the hell, your problem, right? We want that information. It's your price for momma and the kids." Stall the bastard.
"It's extremely difficult ..."
"That's tough."
"...to get the list you want. If you could pin it down to one or two specific names..."
The names might offer him a starting place, a point of reference toward unveiling his opponents. If the opposition wanted a specific witness, he would have a fair idea of who had let the contract in the first place. Given that, he would possess a pressure point.
The gunner thought about it for a moment, or pretended to, before he spoke again. "No good. It's all or nothing, man."
"I'll need some time."
"You've got six hours, starting now. You'll get a call at... let's say 6:15. Be home, or you can kiss it all goodbye."
"Hold on!" Brognola's heart was hammering in his rib cage. He could scarcely form the words. "How do I know my wife and children are alive?"
"You don't."
"Not good enough."
"Hey, listen, man..."
"You listen, man," Brognola snapped. "In case you missed the point, I'm not in this thing for my health. The minute that I don't believe my family's safe, we've got no deal at all." He waited for a silent heartbeat, letting that sink in. "Now, do you put them on the line or shall I pull the plug right now?"
"You're bluffing."
"Try me."
Another hesitation, and Brognola half imagined he could see the gunner fuming, weighing odds and options, struggling to a decision that would let him save some face. His voice was taut with anger when he spoke again.
"Hold on, goddammit!"
As he waited, Hal Brognola switched the telephone receiver to his other hand and wiped his sweaty palm against his slacks. The risk had been a calculated one, but he was dealing with an unknown quantity. It had been possible that his demand, his very tone, would spark a homicidal fury in the caller, push him into acting out his anger and frustration on the hostages. If it had come to that, Brognola would have been compelled to live with precious blood upon his hands, devoting every moment of his remaining life to the annihilation of the animals who had been hired to destroy his world.
But it had worked, at least so far. His reckless gamble had paid off — or would, if he could hear the voices of his family. As long as they survived, he had a reason to play along with their abductors. And the moment that he doubted their survival, as he had informed their captor, then he would have nothing left to lose.
There was a muffled rustling as the other telephone was lifted, passed from hand to hand. Something broke inside him at the sound of Helen's voice as she pronounced his name.
"Hal? Are you there?"
"I'm here."
She heard his pain and longed to reach for him, to clasp his big hands tightly in her own and make him smile. For now, though, it would have to be enough to hear his voice and answer when he spoke to her.
"Are you all right? The kids?"
"We're fine." The lie caught in her throat. "We miss you."
"Jesus, Helen..."
"Hal, be careful."
Even as she spoke, the blond was reaching out to twist the telephone receiver from her trembling hands. His face was livid as he snarled into the mouthpiece.
"There, you satisfied?"
From where she sat, Hal's answer was inaudible, but Helen could guess the content from the furious expression on her captor's face.
"Forget it, Jack. You've wasted too much time already with this bullshit."
Another momentary silence as he listened, and his face had grown so dark that Helen thought he might be on the verge of apoplexy.
"Shit!" He held the telephone away and swiveled toward the nearest ape, on station at the bedroom door. "Bring out the others, Gino."
"Huh?"
"I said bring out the frigging others. Are you deaf, or what?"
"I hear you, man."
"Then move your ass."
The thug looked sullen as he moved to do his boss's bidding, reemerging in a moment with Eileen and Jeff. He herded them in the direction of the telephone and waited, watching, as they each communicated with their father in the fleeting time allotted. Jeff went first, projecting grim bravado, glaring at the blond with hatred in his eyes while listening to Hal. Eileen, in turn, could barely speak at all. Fresh tears were glistening on her cheeks, and she avoided looking at her captors, whispering for Hal to please take care and watch himself. She was her father's daughter, after all, and she would not allow herself to break while he was listening.
"That's it," the blond announced as he reclaimed the phone. "You wanna talk to anybody else, call Dial-a-Prayer. And keep the number handy while you're at it, guy. You try an' fuck me over on this deal, your little family's gonna need some prayers."
He banged the telephone receiver down and spent a moment glaring at the silent instrument, as if it might be thinking of another way to challenge his authority. When he was satisfied that he had finally achieved the final word, he turned again to Gino.
"I'm goin' out a while, to see some people, eh? Get Carmine in here an' the two of you keep both eyes open. I don't want no fuck-ups while I'm gone."
The ape looked bored.
"Bring back some burgers, will ya?''
"Yeah, don't worry. Just remember what I said. No fuck-ups."
"Stop worrying, for Chrissake."
"I get paid to worry."
After he had gone, the import of his words hit home to Helen. He had called his two companions by their given names, uncaring that she might have heard him. That presented her with two alternatives: the names were either aliases, which struck her somehow as unlikely, or the blond had no concern that she would later be in a position to identify his comrades. And with sudden, chilling certainty, she realized that there was only one way, to ensure her silence.
He did not intend to let them live.
When he was finished with her husband — sooner, if he could persuade Hal to proceed without the reassurance of a phone call — they would be eliminated. Having served their purpose, they became disposable.
The prospect of a violent death had haunted Helen's dreams for years, but in relation to her husband, sometimes to her children. Hal had placed himself in killing situations countless times, and all his reassurances had failed to put her mind at ease, although she had become adept at hiding what she felt. In later years, as she had watched their children grow, the fears had broadened to encompass Jeff and Eileen. There were so many terrors in the world outside her home, which ranged from lethal accidents and drunken drivers to the random, senseless violence now pervasive in America. A child, especially a girl-child, was constantly at risk.
But Helen had harbored no concerns about herself until this moment, realizing now that she was marked to die. It was the rough equivalent, she thought, of having a physician look you in the eye and solemnly inform you that your tests were positive, the lump was malignant and your hours were numbered. But an illness could be treated, life extended artificially through chemotherapy and, in the last extremity, by hardware. In her present circumstance, there was no treatment to prescribe, no possibility of a remission.
It would take a miracle to save them now, and Helen's faith would not admit the possibility of intervention from an outside source. If there were any miracles, they would be manufactured by her husband... and she wondered for the first time in their married life if Hal was equal to the task.