John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

Harvey smiled uncomfortably and shot a look to Jonathan.

“Mama is one of the Lord’s messengers,” Jonathan explained with a wink.

She gave him a playful smack on the shoulder. “You make fun, Jonny, but you know I’m right.”

“How is Jeremy doing?” Jonathan asked. He sensed Harvey’s heightened interest.

“He’s frightened,” Mama said. “And he wants to return to his friends.”

“Well, we’ve talked about that,” Jonathan said. “We need to keep his rescue a secret. At least for the time being. It’s for his own safety.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” Mama said. “I’m just answering your question.”

“And I appreciate it. Now I need you to take Mr. Rodriguez upstairs, and give him one of the guest rooms on the third floor.”

He could see the concern in her eyes, but knew that she would cut off a finger before insulting a guest.

“Hopefully, he’ll be with us for quite a while,” he continued. “Of course, that decision is his.”

This time, consciousness returned with a harsh shake.

“Wake up, kid,” a voice said. Kid sounded like keed. “Nap time is over. Time to open eyes.”

Evan Guinn had been vaguely aware for some time, he thought. He knew it was impossibly hot and that he wanted to roll over into a cooler spot, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His limbs still weighed a hundred pounds apiece. So he’d just drift off again.

A harder shake this time, accompanied by a smack to the back of his head. “No more sleep. You wake now. Work to do.”

Work? Did he just say work? What kind-

Hands landed heavily on his shoulders. They grasped his arms and dragged him. For an instant, Evan was suspended in the air, and then he hit the hard ground.

“Hey!” he yelled, arms and legs scrabbling for traction. “Leave me-”

The surroundings didn’t make sense to him yet, but the reality of being lifted by his hair brought a certain focus. His attacker was a squat, beefy man not a lot taller than Evan’s five feet, four inches, but outweighing him by at least a hundred pounds. Without thinking, Evan threw a punch at the man. It was a girlie, roundhouse swing with no power behind it that wiffed.

The counterpunch, however-more an open-handed slap, really, or it would have broken something-landed full-force in Evan’s belly, a resounding whack that startled more than hurt. He tried to double over, but the grip on his hair tightened.

“Don’t be stupid,” the man growled. Stoopeed. “You make me hurt you, I hurt you. You do as I say, I be nice. Entiende? ”

Evan coughed twice and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. “Okay.” He thought he recognized the language as Spanish.

“Good,” the man said. “I let go then.”

It felt like having his scalp reattached. Evan used his fingers as a comb to straighten his hair. It was wet and greasy. “Who are you?” he asked. He heard the accusatory tone in his voice and braced for another smack. It didn’t come.

Instead, the man handed him a thick stack of clothes and said something he didn’t understand. Something about “ropas.”

Evan scowled. “What?”

The man repeated himself, shoving the clothes into his chest. “Put on,” he said.

“Why?”

This time when he shoved the clothes, a finger poked him in the same spot where the slap had landed. Evan couldn’t tell if he did it on purpose or not, but either way, it served as a reminder. He took them the way a linebacker takes a pass from a quarterback, a hand above and below the stack. They felt heavy.

The man held up his beefy hand, fingers splayed wide. “ Cinco minutos, ” he said.

You didn’t have to speak Spanish to get “five minutes” out of that.

The man turned and left, closing a flimsy door behind him, and leaving Evan alone. Suddenly, five minutes seemed like way too much time. The room-if that’s really what you could call it-was tiny, maybe eight feet square. The walls and floor seemed to be made of the same wide wooden planks, but the walls didn’t actually go all the way to the floor, leaving a gap of six inches or so. The room didn’t have a ceiling, really, just an elevated cap that looked like it was made of grass. The walls didn’t meet there, either.

Behind him, his bed turned out to be a wooden door nailed to sawhorses. That platform was the only object in the room, except for a bucket that had been shoved into the corner on the wall opposite the door.

Evan placed the pile of clothes on the plank and sorted through them. This couldn’t be right. “Hey!” he called. “Hey mister! Senor! ”

He waited a few seconds, and when no one answered, he tried again. With still no answer, he padded barefoot to the door and pulled it open. “Hey!”

Jesus, he was in the jungle! Five feet away, two men wearing camouflaged green uniforms jumped at the sound of the door opening and whirled, leveling rifles at his chest.

Evan yelled, wrapped his arms protectively around his head, and dropped to his knees.

Someone shouted, and heavy footsteps ran up to him. Again, he was lifted by his hair, and this time he was shoved back inside. He landed on his back and skidded.

“Don’t shoot me!” Evan cried.

“You crazy boy!” It was the same man as before. “ Loco! Crazy to escape.”

Evan brought himself to his feet, again adjusting his hair. “I wasn’t escaping!” he yelled.

“You escaping!”

“No!”

“Then why run outside?”

“I needed to talk to you!” Evan said. The fear remained, but anger swelled as well. “Look at those clothes!” He pointed at the pile on the plank bed. “They’re for winter!” Indeed, the man had handed him blue jeans, a turtleneck, and a heavy wool sweater.

“Yes. You wear.”

“It’s a thousand degrees.”

“You wear,” the man repeated. He held up three fingers. “ Tres minutos.” He turned to the door, then turned back and said something.

“What?”

He mimicked knocking on the door. “No get shot.” He turned to leave.

“Wait.”

His jailer turned again, annoyance blooming on his face.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

The guard scowled. They weren’t communicating.

Evan went knock-kneed and bounced, the universal pantomime for needing to go. “Pee,” he said. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

The guard’s scowl turned to a grudging smile. He pointed to the bucket in the corner

Evan’s jaw gaped. “You’re shitting me.”

“ Si, ” he said, pointing again. “Sheet.” He closed the door as he exited, then shouted, “ Dos minutos! ”

The offices for Security Solutions occupied the third floor of the same one-hundred-year-old converted firehouse whose first two floors served as Jonathan’s residence. He resisted the pull of home as he walked to the public entrance and smiled at the security camera. There’d been some major renovations to this entryway in recent months, following some unpleasantness involving invaders who had let themselves in by hacking the security code. Now, every employee had to offer up a thumbprint and an encrypted card key to gain access, while security cameras verified each visitor’s identity before anyone could be buzzed in.

As the owner of the company, just the smile worked for Jonathan. The door hummed, and he pushed it open.

A rabbit warren of cubicles greeted him. In this front part of the office-everyone called it “the pit,” but he had no idea why-Security Solutions’ team of twenty investigators and their support staff took care of the public, legitimate side of their business, whose clients included some of the most recognized corporate names in the world.

Jonathan’s team was waiting for him in the War Room-the teak conference room in the Cave, Security Solutions’ executive suite, where the clandestine side of the business was run. Precious few in the company knew exactly what went on in the Cave, and that was fine. Even those who guessed knew to keep their mouths shut.