John Gilstrap - Threat warning

At least the road was paved. If he’d been on gravel, there’d be way more noise, and if he’d been on dirt, he’d have had to worry about the irregularities of surface, and of an ankle twist or a knee jam. As it was, he could run like this for hours.

It turned out that he only had to go about ten minutes. At first, he thought the specks in the distance were headlights, triggering another flash of panic; but as he slowed and got closer, he realized that he was seeing the glow of light from inside a building. Closer still, and he saw that the building was a house. A big one, atop a long hill.

Hope bloomed. His mind conjured an image of a family gathered around the television, watching one of the late-night comedy shows. Wouldn’t they be surprised as all get out when he showed up at their door and told them his story? He wondered if they had any idea of all that was going on at the compound down the road. It would have been like the Germans who lived down the street from the concentration camps. Surprises like that were the ones that no one wanted.

Except the Germans knew. Most of them, anyway, and the rest were in denial. Isn’t that what he saw on Band of Brothers? Absolutely. The American commanders made the townspeople go down to the camp and bury the dead.

Suppose these people knew? They’d have to know, wouldn’t they?

He stopped dead in the middle of the road. All those terrorists had to live somewhere, didn’t they? True, Ryan had barely seen the compound within the fence, but not everyone could live inside there, could they? He couldn’t risk it.

But he couldn’t stay here in the middle of the road, either. He had to do something.

He retreated back to the wood line on the right-hand side of the road-the side opposite the lit-up house-and he slowed his approach to a cautious tiptoe. From this distance, in the dark, the house looked exactly like Hollywood’s version of a mansion, complete with tall pillars out front.

This felt wrong to him. He decided it was not the place to seek help.

He stayed off the road until the lights from the house were no longer visible, and then he dared to start running again on the road. He went a long way, and it took him a long time. He didn’t know how far or how long, but from the sting of his legs and the heave of his lungs, he figured it had to be the equivalent of a 5K race. That meant three-point-one miles, or, to the rest of the world, a long way.

How was it possible to run three miles anywhere and not see anything? Even in Fayetteville-which was close to the capital of nowhere-he’d have passed a house or two on a run this long. He supposed it was possible, given the darkness of the night, that he’d passed the very kind of house he was looking for-empty with the lights off-but how could he know?

He craned his neck for a view of the horizon. Still no sign of dawn. He still had time. The plan was still alive.

One day, when all of this was over, Ryan was going to research how it was possible that in West Virginia hills only went up. On the way in on the night they were taken, the entire trip had seemed uphill, and now that he was going the opposite direction on foot, he knew damn well that it was all uphill.

As he crested his current slog, he saw a glimmer of hope. Somewhere in the distance-near or far, he couldn’t tell-a tiny light beckoned him. And unlike the lit-up house earlier, this light was far enough away from the compound to give him hope that the people who owned it weren’t complicit Nazis, but instead innocent Germans. You know, to keep the metaphor alive.

Still, he had to be careful. Everything was at stake here, including heartbeats and breathing. It behooved him to be careful. He slowed to an old-guy jog, and then to a walk.

Whatever the light was, it wasn’t a house this time. It was too small. Like, really small. And as he got closer, he noted that a splash of blue had invaded the white light.

He stopped. “Holy shit,” he said aloud. Was it even possible? Unless he was hallucinating, that blue spot was an image of a telephone.

Ryan didn’t have any coins in his pocket. “Oh, please,” he whispered. “Oh please, oh please, oh please.” He lifted the phone from its cradle.

Dial tone. Yes!

He pressed the receiver to his face and dialed 911. The line clicked with electronic noise, and five seconds later, he heard a voice on the other end.

“Maddox County Sheriff’s Office, Technician Phelps. What is your emergency?”

A flood of emotion erupted from deep within Ryan’s soul. This was his moment to be brave-to announce to the world that he was here to save his family-yet when the moment arrived, he dissolved into deep, choking sobs.

Jonathan snatched up his receiver and brought it to his head. “Yeah.” At this hour-Jesus, one-thirty-seven-one syllable was the best he could muster.

“Verify your identity, please, sir,” a voice said from the other side.

“Excuse me?”

“Sir, I need you to verify your identity before I can continue.”

Jonathan shook his head to rattle the sleep from his synapses. “You called me. Who do you think it is?”

“Sir, we can play these games all night, but it’s a waste of time. I have orders to follow.” He sounded young.

“Who is this?” Jonathan pressed.

“Sir, it’s late for me, too, okay? Must we make this more difficult than necessary? I need to confirm your identity.”

Jonathan sat up in his bed and turned the switch on the nightstand lamp. “This is Jonathan Grave,” he said.

“Thank you. Next, I need your address and date of birth.”

Finally, this was beginning to make sense. He was about to receive intelligence data from someone who had no business giving it to him. He gave the caller both bits of information.

“Excellent,” the voice said. “Thank you. And can you verify that you are awake enough to comprehend the information I’m about to give you?”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Awake and alert.”

“Okay,” the young man said. “Because I’m about to deliver information that would send me to prison if it were ever revealed. There’s no way I’m going to say this twice, so it’s very important that you’re ready to copy the details.”

Fully awake now, Jonathan swung his feet to the floor and stood. With the phone pressed to his ear, he walked naked to his desk in the far corner, switched on that lamp and sat in his Aeron chair, pen hovering over paper. “I’m ready to copy,” he said, and then he pressed a button to record the call.

“I work for the National Security Agency,” the young voice said. “In violation of God knows how many laws, we picked up a recording from an American citizen to an American citizen. My boss said I needed to wake you up and relay the information. The only reason I can think of that he didn’t call you himself is that he didn’t want to be the designated jailee. Personally, sir, before I play you the tape, I need to reiterate that you’re a perfect stranger to me, and if I need to throw you under the bus to save my own ass, I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

Jonathan laughed. “Don’t hold back,” he said. “Tell me what you really think.”

“I am telling you what I really think,” he said. Clearly, his irony sensor had been paralyzed by NSA bureaucracy. “Apparently, you’re more important tonight than the entire Constitution, and way more important than my future. Stand by to copy.”

Jonathan heard a click and some mechanical noise. Then a voice:

“Maddox County Sheriff’s Office, Technician Phelps. What is your emergency?”

Next came a muffled sound he didn’t quite recognize until it huffed a little, like a struggling steam engine. The person on the other end of the phone was crying. “Th-this is Ryan Nasbe,” the voice said. “Me and my mom were kidnapped.”