The results were nothing short of spectacular.
The colonel was happy. The transfer of their captives from the federal building to the safe house had gone smoothly.
Moving prisoners was never an easy thing. It combined the logistics of travel, always awkward, with any number of complications. Prisoners rightfully saw it as their best chance for an escape. Cars could break down and police could get involved. The last time the colonel had transferred a captive was three months ago: he and a Mossad assassin had hauled a much sought militant out of Yemen’s Empty Quarter, the man bound by his own bootlaces and strapped to the back of a donkey — or more precisely, he’d later been told, a Nubian wild ass. A bar story and a punch line all in one. That they’d succeeded was nothing less than an act of divine providence. This time the commander of Unit 9 had everything in his favor. Two borrowed federal vehicles — solid and serviced, and staffed by his own team of operators — to move a pair of well-shackled prisoners to a suburb of West Boston. No ass involved.
During the journey to the safe house, he’d ordered that Lund and their mystery man were to have no contact whatsoever. Not yet anyway. They arrived in separate cars, and were taken to rooms on opposite sides of the house, one in the basement and the other on the second floor. The place was a two-story colonial, an FBI retreat established six months ago but rarely used since, situated in an agreeable neighborhood west of town. If the community had a theme it was acreage, the homes spaced widely apart. Mature trees and hedgerows gave further privacy to residents who clearly craved it — and none more so than the temporary occupants of 3443 Saddle Lane.
Once their charges were secured behind locked doors, the colonel assembled his team and went over the plan. “I’ve heard nothing new about what happened to the general, but honestly, I don’t expect to. It’s time to put this op to bed. We’ll dump the girl soon, but first I want to interrogate our man, and I need her as leverage — he seems to care about her safety.”
“Time frame?” the major asked.
“We unload the girl tonight. Then we’ll egress clean first thing in the morning.”
“And the Coastie?”
The commander hesitated. “That depends on what I find out about him.”
A watch schedule was posted, and two men were allowed to rack out in what was done up as a kid’s bedroom — there were Star Wars posters on the walls, and the bunk beds were dressed in sheets printed with fire engines. The colonel went to the room where their man was locked up — it had been hardened by the FBI for just that purpose. He went inside without knocking, but before he could say anything, their captive greeted him with, “It’s about time, Colonel Freeman.”
35
Freeman stood stunned. It was a gross breach of protocol for a detainee to know his interrogator’s name. A damned bad thing in a lot of ways. “How the hell—”
“In five minutes I can tell you everything you need to know. And it won’t be what you expect. Agreed?”
The colonel said nothing.
The man in the hood began.
“You are Colonel Brian Freeman, United States Army. Green Beret, and six years on Delta Force. Your team is Unit 9, a highly selective squad embedded in SOCOM. In the rooms behind you are Major Randy Piasecki, United States Army. Petty Officer Second Class Jack Stevens, and Petty Officer First Class Patrick Baumann, both Navy SEALs. Air Force Master Sergeant Jeffrey Chambliss is your unit comm specialist.”
“How … no … nobody knows that.”
“Right now we’re in a safe house at 3443 Saddle Lane in Watertown, Massachusetts. I was brought here from the O’Neill Federal Building in downtown Boston.” The man paused, as if to let the burn in Freeman’s gut etch deeper. “You attended West Point and deployed for three tours, Iraq and Afghanistan, before being selected for the Green Berets.” Another pause. “Last night you went to your bank’s website and transferred eight hundred dollars from savings to checking. You were married on December 26, 2000, to the former Marie Angleton. You have two daughters, Bethany and Jackie.”
Freeman went rigid. He took two steps toward the man, and hissed, “Are you making idle threats against my family, Coastie?”
“Idle? Is that an assumption you can afford to make right now?”
Freeman felt something rise inside him, imminent like thunder after lightning. “What are you implying?”
“At this minute your wife is pulling into the driveway of a house in Fredericksburg … her parents’ place. She’s dropping off the girls so she can go to her book club, which meets once a month, rotating between the houses of the nine women who take part.”
Freeman lunged and took the man by the collar, constricting the fabric around his throat. There was a momentary gag, and he said, “Listen, you mother—”
The Coastie showed a sudden strength. He dropped a shoulder, loosening Freeman’s grip but not breaking it. It was enough to allow a breath, and he said, “Colonel … I think it’s time for you to join me in the darkness.”
Seconds later, every light in the room went dark. The blackness was absolute.
Then the Coastie said, “Your phone is about to ring.”
On that cue, Freeman felt the familiar vibration in his breast pocket — he’d set the ringer volume to mute.
“It’s your wife, answer it.”
In the darkness, a disbelieving Freeman let go with one hand and retrieved his phone. He saw a call from his wife. An electric jolt went down his spine. He swiped to take the call. “Marie! Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine … but what about you? I got your text to call right away, you said it was something urgent.”
Freeman’s thoughts began to spin out of control. He enforced order on his military mind, the same as when he was under fire on a battlefield. “Where are you?”
A stutter from his wife, who was typically rock-solid, then, “I’m at Mom and Dad’s. My book club is tonight and—”
“Marie, listen very closely! I want you to take the girls inside and stay there. Lock the doors and don’t let anybody in the house! I will call you back in ten minutes.”
“Brian … you’re scaring me.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry. Ten minutes.”
He ended the call, but before he could speak again the man behind the hood said, “Lights back on now.”
There was a pause, and Freeman stood silent and stunned. Five seconds later the lights flickered to life.
The door behind him suddenly opened, and Piasecki said, “Power outage, boss. No explanation, but we’re looking into it. You okay in here?”
Freeman hesitated and, without turning to face the major, said, “Yeah, I’m good. Stand up the watch outside.”
“Will do.”
The door closed.
One of Freeman’s hands was still on the Coastie’s collar, but his grip had loosened considerably. No longer throttling, but keeping a distance, in the way a snake handler might hold a pit viper. Then Freeman did something he hadn’t done since he was a lieutenant. He completely lost his cool.
He ripped the hood off the man’s head, and his free hand balled into a fist. Ready to go. He watched the blue eyes blink in surprise, adjusting to the light. Then they met Freeman’s gaze.