John Gilstrap - Damage Control

Right now, things were going very, very wrong. And she’d sent for reinforcements.

When Gail Bonneville arrived in the War Room-the high-tech teak conference room that was decked out with every techno-toy imaginable-her hair was still wet from the shower that Venice’s call had interrupted. Even disheveled, Gail had an air of athletic grace about her that always thrummed a pang of jealousy in Venice, whose constant battle with the same thirty pounds had once again turned to a losing one.

“What’s wrong and how bad is it?” Gail asked as she helped herself to one of the ergonomic chairs that surrounded the massive table. As she spoke, she lifted a panel in the table to reveal a computer screen, slid out a keyboard, and logged in to her account.

“All the hostages but one are dead,” Venice said. She took a couple of minutes to fill in the rest of the story.

A former member of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team, and a retired sheriff of a small community in Indiana, Gail Bonneville had a law degree and a PhD in criminology. After one particularly difficult op in West Virginia, she’d decided that extra-legal door crashing didn’t suit her, and she’d assumed official control of Security Solutions’s legitimate side. She kept her finger on the pulse of the covert side, but she no longer put herself in the position of perhaps having to shoot people whom she had no authority to kill.

As Gail listened to Venice fill in the details, the space between her eyebrows folded into deep furrows. “How’s Digger holding up? He’s never lost a hostage, has he?”

Venice gave a look that said, Are you kidding me? “You might have noticed that Dig doesn’t exactly bare his soul to me.”

“To anyone,” Gail acknowledged. She sat back in her seat and scowled even deeper. “I don’t understand how this is possible,” she said. “The entire population of people who knew about this is either in this room or in Mexico getting shot at. How could their plan have leaked out?”

“That’s why I called you in,” Venice said. “None of this adds up. I thought of Reverend Mitchell at the Crystal Palace and whoever is advising her, but that doesn’t make sense, either. Even if she had reason to betray us-and why would she when the mission is to rescue her parishioners? — Digger never divulges operational details to a client. To prevent this very scenario.”

“Like I said,” Gail concurred, “we’re witnessing the impossible. You and I haven’t leaked anything.” A pause. “Right?”

Venice’s ears turned hot. She’d known Jonathan since she was a little girl, and she’d been his right hand for nearly as long. Gail was the newcomer, and while she was Jonathan’s regular bed partner-who the heck knew where their relationship stood these days? — how dare she question “I’m sorry,” Gail said, clearly interpreting Venice’s glare for what it was. “Of course you didn’t. Boxers doesn’t say two hundred words a month about anything, and he’d cut out his tongue before he talked about an upcoming op, so he’s out, too.”

Venice didn’t like the remaining implication any better than the veiled accusation against her. “Are you saying that Digger sabotaged himself?”

Gail held up a hand. “I’m not suggesting that he did it on purpose, but you know how Jon can be when he gets into his gamesmanship mode. Remember how we first met?”

Gail had a point. Boxers often railed against the shortcuts Jonathan took in the area of opsec-operational security. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he’d let his tongue wag more than was prudent.

“It doesn’t matter,” Gail said, dismissing her own argument. “We’re where we are. How we got here matters less than fixing it. We need to find a way for them to get out of there.” She started typing. “Let’s start with the topo maps.”

While Gail typed some more, gaining access to the computer files Jonathan had used to plan the mission, Venice brought the giant wall screen to life. From there, they could monitor each other’s screens. Two seconds after the images appeared, Venice’s computer rang like an old-fashioned telephone.

Venice’s heart jumped, and as her hands flew to enter the right commands, Gail said, “What’s that?”

“Bad news,” Venice replied. “Always, always bad news.”

Boxers drove slowly-on these roads, slowly was about the best you could do-while Jonathan worked his GPS and map. They’d set a general course to the north, just to put distance between them and the bad guys. Outside, the scenery never changed: a wall of green wetness that smelled of rot. They kept the windows down and the air-conditioning off, both to give the engine a break, and to keep their sense of hearing intact.

“I wish we’d had a chance to collect intel,” Boxers said. “Maybe those guys had shit in their pockets that would give a clue who they are.”

“Woulda, coulda, shoulda,” Jonathan said without looking up. “I’m thinking that maybe when we get to the U.S. border, Wolverine will be able to talk us across. Without passports, that could be a problem.”

Boxers laughed. “Yeah, well, on the spectrum of our problems right now, let’s call that one minor.”

Jonathan looked over his shoulder again to check on their PC. Now that the shooting had stopped, he let the kid sit upright in his seat. “Hey, Tristan, did they let you keep your passport?” He wasn’t surprised that the answer was no, but it was worth checking, just to be sure.

“Why are they doing this?” Tristan asked. “What did I do to hurt them?”

Boxers smirked to his boss. Between the two of them, Jonathan was by far the more sensitive, and that was a very low bar. Jonathan hated the touchy-feely stuff. Back in his days with the Unit, they had psychologists to take care of that crap.

“You didn’t do anything, Tristan,” he said. “You can’t think of it that way. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes, it’s no more complicated than that.”

“But we were targeted,” Tristan said. “They knew exactly who they were coming for. They even had our pictures.”

A bell rang in Jonathan’s head, and he sat taller in his seat. The maps could wait for a minute. “You mean physical pictures?”

“Yes. Well, not on paper, but they had it on their iPhones.”

Jonathan cursed under his breath. Yeah, they should have gathered intel; but it would have been a ridiculous risk. “What did they tell you about why you were being taken?” Jonathan asked.

“Nothing,” Tristan said. “They just told us, you know, to stay in our seats and be quiet and stuff. They never said why.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“Allison did,” Tristan said, “but that really pissed them off. They yelled really loud and hit her. Told her to shut up.” His voice caught at that last part. “After that, I guess nobody wanted to chance it again.”

The SUV hit a pothole that caused them to lurch hard to the left. Jonathan damn near lost control of his computer.

Boxers said, “Sorry about that. I’m lodging a complaint with the Department of Public Roads.”

Jonathan kept focus on Tristan. “Did they speak English or Spanish?” he asked.

“Both. They mostly spoke Spanish to each other, but they spoke English to us, even though most of us are pretty fluent.”

Jonathan was trying to picture the event in his mind. “So, during your days of captivity, did they forbid talking? Don’t speak unless spoken to?”

Tristan shook his head. “It wasn’t like that at all. They let us talk among ourselves, but they listened pretty carefully to what we were talking about. One of them was a big fan of pop music. He and Ray talked a lot about that.”

Jonathan was sensing the presence of training among the captors. Stockholm Syndrome was a very real factor in hostage situations, and smart hostage takers know how to build rapport with the victims they intend to kill. Done skillfully, that engineered sense of friendship will cause victims to take violent action against their rescuers.