John Gilstrap - Threat warning

Venice pretended not to hear. “She has a completely clean criminal record. Not even a moving violation, which is actually kind of creepy.” An otherwise law-abiding, straight-shooting model citizen, Venice Alexander was by anyone’s estimation, a speed demon. Wrapped in Glow Bird-the name she’d given to her butt-ugly blaze-orange Miata-her right foot turned to solid lead when she got on the road.

After a few more taps, Venice continued her monologue. “She lives in the Nathan Bedford Forrest Mobile Home Park, where she pays…”

Jonathan knew to wait for it.

“… three twenty-five a month in rent.”

“That’s all?” Gail gasped.

“We’re talking rural West Virginia,” Venice said.

“But I come from rural Indiana, and-”

“You ever been to rural West Virginia?” Boxers asked with a smirk. “There is no rural like rural West Virginia.” To Venice: “We’re talking coal country?”

She nodded. Then scowled. “Only coal is not the big industry there.” She used her finger to follow the words on the screen, the way other people might read a newspaper. “Apparently, the mines in Maddox County are pretty much played out. The big corporate taxpayer there now is Appalachian Acoustics. They make acoustic shells, those things that go up behind orchestras and choruses to direct the sound out to the audience.”

Boxers looked to Jonathan. “Are you seeing the relevance to any of this?”

“Intel is intel, Box. It’s like ammunition-I’ve never wished that I had less.”

The look Venice gave to the Big Guy would have been more complete if she’d stuck out her tongue, but she restrained herself. “They employ nearly two hundred workers in a factory there that makes…” She strained to read further on the page. “Wow. A hundred million a year.”

Jonathan’s jaw dropped. “On acoustic shells? A product I’d never heard of until right now?”

“Despite your love of concert halls,” Gail joked.

“They’re a big company,” Venice said, reading on. “International, in fact, with exports to just about everywhere. And they supply to the federal government. Their brochure says even the White House uses their products.”

“I’m a little lost myself,” Gail confessed. “Why is all this demographic data important to us?”

Venice started to answer, then deferred to her boss. “Go ahead,” she said. “You tell her.”

“Leverage,” Jonathan explained. “We don’t get to play with warrants and court orders, so we need to be persuasive in other ways. The more we know about the community, the more we can strategize about leverage.”

“Who are we leveraging?” Gail asked.

“Whoever we need to. We know for a fact that the Nasbe family has been taken to someplace called Maddox County, West Virginia, and we know that a call for help is being covered up. I think that Ms. Stacy

…” He looked to Venice.

“Phelps,” she prompted.

“I think that Stacy Phelps is a good place to start. Why would a law-abiding public servant pretend that a call never happened?”

Gail’s eyes narrowed. “And we’re going to extract that information from her through leverage ”-she used finger-quotes-“without any legal authority to do so.”

Jonathan shrugged. “That’s as good a summary as any.”

“That means blackmail?” she asked.

“Persuasion,” Jonathan countered. “Whatever it takes.”

She didn’t like it. “I thought we made it a point not to tangle with domestic law-enforcement agencies. I thought you thought that was the ultimate recipe for disaster.”

“I still feel that way. Up to but excluding the point where the law enforcers become a part of the problem. Besides, Stacy Phelps isn’t a cop. She’s a dispatcher.”

“Who works for cops,” Gail said. “You really think that we can mess with one without messing with the other?”

Boxers asked, “Maybe her bosses have no idea what she’s doing. If that were the case, then we’d be doing the Maddox County Sheriff’s Department a favor by ferreting out someone who’s covering up a crime.”

“Then let’s call the sheriff’s office and tell them what we know. Why not let them handle it?”

“First, there’s the source of our information,” Jonathan said. “That’s one hundred percent off the table.”

“And then there’s the fact that the sheriff’s office might be in on it,” Venice added.

Jonathan was impressed. Venice rarely weighed in on conspiracy theories.

She saw it in his expression. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not as Pollyanna as you think I am.”

Jonathan and Boxers laughed. “Oh, yes, you are,” they said in unison, making them laugh again.

Venice’s eyes returned to her screen, and her brow furrowed. One day, Jonathan figured that practicality would trump vanity and she’d get some glasses. Such words would never pass his lips, however.

“Now this is interesting,” Venice said. “I did a data search on the Nathan Bedford Forrest Mobile Home Park. That is one tough neighborhood. They could have their own police substation for all the calls that run out there.”

“Can I go home?” Boxers said. “If we’re going to chat, I’ve got other stuff to do. If we’re going to go to Maddox County and kick some ass, I’ll stay.”

Jonathan asked Venice, “How far is this place?”

She tapped. “As the crow flies, three hundred twenty miles. Throw in the mountain roads, and I’d guess an eight-or nine-hour drive.”

As he’d figured. “Too far to drive. Take too long. Box, find us a way to get in by air, and do all the planning you need to make that happen. Make sure you work with Venice to make any arrangements we need for landing zones and such.

“Ven, keep researching the area. If it looks interesting or relevant, make a note of it, and send it all to me electronically. It’ll give me something to read on the flight. Also, I need you to get us some wheels. Usual methods. Find us a place to set up a CP, too.” He knew that she would understand the abbreviation for command post.

Jonathan looked at Gail. “You come with me to the armory and we’ll load up the Batmobile.”

“What are we bringing?” Boxers asked, clearly annoyed that he wasn’t involved in the arms selection.

“A little bit of everything,” Jonathan said. “I have no idea what we’re looking at on the far side of this thing. I’ll plan for the worst.”

“How big a ‘worst’ are you talking about?”

Jonathan’s shoulders sagged. “Would you like me to let you see it before we load it up?”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Boxers said. “You know, since I’m the one who’s likely to be carrying it all.”

“Plan for a heavy load.”

“I’ll get us a chopper with horsepower to spare.” Boxers knew as much about mission planning as any five logisticians in the business.

Jonathan checked his watch. “I show that it’s zero-three-twenty-five. I want to be airborne by oh-six-hundred. Everybody good with that?”

He asked it as if there were a choice.

The cop-Sheriff Neen-drove way too slowly for Ryan’s taste. His mom was about to die, for God’s sake, and this guy hadn’t even turned on his lights and siren. He just, you know, drove. He even stopped at stop signs.

“This isn’t the way,” Ryan said. “I came straight down that road there.”

“All in good time, son,” Neen replied. He had a mustache that looked like something out of cowboy times, a big bushy thing that covered his entire lip and curled up at the ends. “This isn’t the big city. I can’t just call a SWAT team and have them go charging in. It’s just me and some deputies-sleeping deputies at that-and before I go charging anywhere, I want to make sure I know what I’m getting into. Now, tell me about this kidnapping you say happened.”