John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

Jonathan craned his head to get a look, and saw the owner of the voice and the hands: a young man-another weight-lifter, judging from his heavily muscled arms-and he was all business.

“He came from one of the cells,” Venice said, answering his question before he could ask it. “Okay, got it.”

The bolt slid home again. They had a little more time.

Boxers said, “Charges are in place, boss.”

“Stand by,” Jonathan said. “I’m still not ready to shoot.”

“Shoot who?” his new companion said. “Who the fuck you talkin’ to?”

“Never mind,” Jonathan said.

“The fucking door’s locked!” Jimmy yelled from the far end of the hall. He was one door away from freedom, and he could feel the pull. What he didn’t know was that if Boxers shot the door with him standing there, no one would ever find his pieces.

The inmate said, “The fuck you doin’ here?”

“We’re breakin’ out!” Jimmy called, and his words raised a hell of a ruckus behind the cell doors. They wanted out, too.

“That true?” the inmate asked Jonathan.

Jonathan nodded. “Afraid so, yes.” He started moving toward the final door.

The inmate followed. “Antoine Johnson,” he said, offering his hand.

Jonathan stifled an ironic chuckle and shook the hand as he continued to walk down the hall. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m coming with you,” Antoine said.

“No, you’re not.” Jonathan answered without eye contact.

Antoine grabbed him by the biceps and jerked him to a halt. “I don’t think you heard me.”

This time, Jonathan’s eyes burned through the man’s brain. “Take your hands off of me,” he growled. “I appreciate your help, so I don’t want to hurt you.”

Antoine seemed to surprise himself as he let go and took a small step back. “C’mon, man. I don’t belong here. I’m innocent.”

“I’m sure you are,” Jonathan said. “But I’m only here for him.” He indicated Jimmy with a toss of his head.

The lock on the final door buzzed, and Jimmy reached for it. “Freeze,” Jonathan commanded. “Don’t move until I tell you.” He looked back to Antoine. “Do not follow us,” he said.

“How you gonna stop me?” He seemed to grow an inch as he tried to look menacing.

Jonathan took a step closer and lowered his voice nearly to a whisper. “If I see you on the other side of that door, I’ll kill you. You helped over there, and I appreciate it. Don’t make me kill you, Antoine.”

The inmate took a step back. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

Jonathan shrugged. “Wait for your cell door to open again and go back home.”

“Scorpion, we gotta go,” Boxers said.

“I’m on it,” Jonathan replied. He held out his hand to Antoine. “Thank you,” he said. “And good luck to you.”

Antoine looked at the hand as if it were something poisonous.

“Trust me,” Jonathan said. “Within the next twelve hours, you’re going to get a big laugh out of this.”

“Digger!” Venice barked in his earbud.

Antoine cocked his head. “A laugh, huh?”

Jonathan smiled. “I promise.”

The inmate accepted his hand, and they shook. “You one crazy motherfucker.”

Jonathan ended the conversation with a quick flick of a nod, and then he disappeared out the door into the night. The lock slid home immediately.

Two steps into the fresh air, Jonathan and Boxers together grabbed Jimmy Henry by his arms, bent him low, and more carried than pushed him to the van that Boxers had staged on the far curb. It was exactly the same maneuver that the Secret Service would use if a protectee was under fire.

The back doors were open and waiting. When they closed to within a few yards, Boxers broke off to slide behind the steering wheel while Jonathan half tossed, half slid their precious cargo onto the steel deck of the stripped-down van. He hadn’t even stopped tumbling before the van was rolling. As they turned the first corner, Jonathan leaned out to close the back door.

“That was awesome, dude!” Jimmy laughed. “I mean, really fuckin’ awesome. I thought for sure we were-”

“Shut up,” Jonathan barked.

Jimmy was only a silhouette in the dark, but Jonathan saw him rear back. “Christ, dude, you don’t-”

Jonathan grabbed the ankle of Jimmy’s orange jumpsuit and pulled, sliding the kid flat onto his back. Before the inmate could react, Jonathan fired a savage punch to his testicles, and the response was instant. The kid retched and curled himself into a tight ball. He was still struggling to regain his breath when Jonathan started wrapping Jimmy’s eyes with duct tape.

“Dude, what the fuck-?”

Jonathan clamped his hand over the kid’s mouth hard enough to loosen a tooth and pressed his head into the floor of the van. “Shut up, punk,” he hissed. “Just shut up until I tell you to talk. And I swear to God, if you call me ‘dude’ one more time, I’m going to take a hammer to your nose.”

Jimmy was crying now, in agony from the blow to his groin, and clearly terrified. “I’ll do anything,” he whined. “Honest to God, I’m on your side, okay?”

“Don’t be so sure, kid,” Boxers called from the front.

“W-what are you going to do?”

Jonathan punched him in the balls again, harder this time. “What part of ‘shut up’ confuses you?” he growled.

The kid retched more, and when he vomited, Jonathan felt comfortable that he’d finally made his point. Jimmy wouldn’t risk another punch, so Jonathan wouldn’t have to fire another one. As sensitive as testicles are to pain, they’re actually fairly indestructible. Pound a guy in his nuts and you not only get his attention but you gain a huge psychological advantage. The younger the target, the more profound the advantage. It’s as if God had interrogators in mind when he designed the human body.

As for the vomiting, it was an unfortunate but predictable side effect-and the reason why Jonathan hadn’t taped his prisoner’s mouth. He didn’t need the kid choking to death before he gave them what they wanted.

They drove eight miles into the flat vastness of Virginia’s Northern Neck, past thousands of acres of farmland that was devoid of all but the occasional shade tree, the entire tableau dyed blue-black in the late-night darkness. Without the GPS preset on their navigation device, Jonathan doubted that Boxers would have seen the narrow driveway that marked their first turn.

They drove confidently in the darkened vehicle thanks to the night-vision goggles that Boxers and Jonathan had come to see as an extension to normal vision. As the van bounced along the rutted path, so did Jimmy on the metal floor. But beyond the occasional instinctive reaction to pain and fear, he kept his mouth shut.

Ahead, at the end of the long driveway, an open gate in a clapboard fence marked the way to a massive barn. The door had been propped open just as they’d arranged. The owner of this spread was a man named Horne, an old acquaintance of Jonathan’s, who knew better than to ask detailed questions but had made the appropriate assumptions about the nature of Jonathan’s business and didn’t mind cooperating one bit.

They drove into the barn and stopped. Jonathan waited quietly as he heard Boxers get out of the van, close the barn door, and then return to the van to open the double back doors.

“Listen to me, Jimmy,” Jonathan said. His tone was soft, almost soothing. “We’re going to move you now, and I want you to cooperate. Do you understand?”

Jimmy’s breathing rate doubled as panic set in. Blinded by the tape over his eyes and aching from his beating, the kid was terrified. That was the whole point.

Jonathan jerked his chin at Boxers, and the big man grabbed the cuffs of the kid’s pants and dragged him along the flatbed to the edge above the back bumper. When he let Jimmy’s legs drop, the kid naturally sat up, and Boxers dipped to get his shoulder low enough to lift him into a fireman’s carry. Another panic response made the kid squirm, but he caught himself right away and settled down.