John Gilstrap - Threat warning

Gail made a motorboat sound in her throat. “I hate it when you use the badge,” she said.

Jonathan and Boxers exchanged looks, but they didn’t comment. Their FBI credentials weren’t as false as most of their kind. Fact was, the Bureau occasionally found itself in positions where they shouldn’t be, with a requirement to go where they shouldn’t go. When those occasions arose, Security Solutions was always on the short list of contractors to clean up the mess, and the creds came in handy. In return, the people who counted at Bureau headquarters agreed to look the other way when Jonathan needed them for his own purposes. It wasn’t as if they had a lot of options, after all. No one relished the idea of Jonathan Grave speaking in open court about the things he knew.

The ultimate irony, of course, was that Gail had actually been a sworn agent of the FBI, but she had no credentials, and refused to allow Jonathan to have some made up for her.

Boxers parked the Dodge out front of Stacy Phelps’s mobile home, its bumper nearly touching the trunk of her eight-year-old Celica, blocking her ability to drive away. All three climbed out together, but Jonathan and Gail hung around the vehicle while Boxers went around back.

Thirty seconds later, the bud in Jonathan’s right ear delivered Boxers’ report that the phones had been disabled. He’d hang around back there to cover the black side of the building, just in case.

The steps to the stoop were too narrow to accommodate both of them, so Jonathan led the way and rapped on the door. He did it heavily, using the heel of his fist rather than his knuckles. When you’re pretending to be a law enforcement officer, the last thing you worry about is stealth. For them, it’s all about intimidation, and it begins with the knock on the door.

When the door remained unanswered thirty seconds later, he pounded again. A moment later, he heard movement, and then two locks slid and the door opened a crack, revealing the sleep-puffed face of a woman in her twenties. “Who do you think-”

Jonathan held his badge in the open door crack. “Special Agent Harris, FBI,” he said. “Are you Stacy Phelps?”

Stacy’s anger morphed to confusion. Maybe to fear. “I’m Stacy Phelps. What’s wrong?”

“May we come in?” Jonathan asked.

“Why?” she asked. Then, as an afterthought: “We?”

Jonathan pivoted his body so that she could see Gail at the bottom of the stairs. “That’s Special Agent Nichols.”

Gail gave a curt nod, but otherwise didn’t move. She had her game face on. “You don’t look like an FBI agent,” Stacy said.

Jonathan acknowledged his woodland cammies with a glance. “Never judge a book by its cover,” he said. “Out here, all respect, might as well wear a target on your chest as wear a necktie. I’d really rather talk inside,”

Stacy stepped aside and left room for the two of them to enter. “I’d offer you some coffee,” she said, “but I don’t have any made. I work nights and I was sleeping.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gail said. “We know you do.”

Stacy paled. She had an undernourished, overworked look to her-long, stringy black hair that needed a wash-and why wouldn’t it after a long night at work? What Jonathan noticed most were the dark circles under her eyes. They didn’t impress him as the transient variety that would go away with a night’s sleep.

“Y- you know I work nights?” she stammered. “Why would the FBI be interested in knowing my work schedule?”

Rule one of negotiations: Control the conversation by asking all the questions. Gail said, “You received a phone call during your last shift from a young man who reported a kidnapping. Do you remember that?”

Stacy physically reeled at the question. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped a little. Her lips seemed to want to say something, but no words came out.

“Let’s sit down, Stacy,” Jonathan offered, gesturing to her living room with its sofa and two chairs. They no doubt had been sold as a set, all three of them sharing identical beige fabric that reminded Jonathan of an old sport coat in his closet back home.

He led the way and she followed, with Gail bringing up the rear. She chose the sofa and seemed startled when Gail joined her on the adjacent cushion.

Jonathan said, “In answering Agent Nichols’s questions, please remember that it’s a felony to lie to a federal officer. If you do that, I won’t hesitate to put you in handcuffs and take you out of here.” Since he was playing the bad cop-another gambit that always worked, despite the cliche-he figured he might as well get into character early.

“We have no interest in arresting you, Stacy,” Gail said. “But Agent Harris is right. We’ll do what we have to do. Now about that phone call.”

“Who told you?” Stacy looked as if she was living her worst nightmare. Exactly as Jonathan had hoped.

“You need to ask less and answer more,” Gail said. “A young man named Ryan Nasbe called at roughly one-twelve this morning asking to be rescued. Do you remember that?”

Stacy’s head twitched.

“Please answer verbally for me,” Gail said.

“Yes,” she said. “I remember.”

“Thank you. What came of that call?”

Stacy broke gaze and shifted in her seat. This was a woman who should never play poker. “What do you mean, what came of it?”

“Is this the way it’s going to be, Stacy?” Jonathan said. “You’re going to make us re-ask every question so that you can buy time to make up a lie?”

Terror. “No, I swear. I’m not doing that.”

“Stacy, look at me,” Gail said. “Just tell us what happened.”

“I-I don’t want any trouble.”

“Of course you don’t. Neither do we. All we want to do is gather information. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“I-I suppose not.”

“There’s no trouble to be caused by the truth, is there?” Gail pressed. “The truth will set you free.”

“And a lie will get your butt thrown in jail,” Jonathan said, drawing an impatient look from Gail. Okay, maybe he was laying it on a little thick.

“What happened after you received that call?” Gail asked. She gently touched Stacy’s knee to draw attention away from Jonathan and signal that she was trustworthy.

Stacy’s lip trembled. Her hands, too. Tears balanced on her lids as her eyes searched the room for something to look at other than her visitors.

“Stacy?”

She bolted to her feet, startling them both. Jonathan’s hand moved toward his. 45. Right away, though, it was obvious she meant no harm. She just couldn’t sit. “I knew this would happen,” Stacy said. “I am so sorry that I ever got involved in any of it.”

Gail shot a quick look to Jonathan that said, Now this is interesting.

“Please sit down, Stacy,” Gail said. “You make us nervous when you jump up like that.”

“I knew it, knew it, knew it.”

“Knew what, Stacy?” The rule book said it was important to use the other person’s name as often as possible in a negotiation. It was a trick that salesmen have known since the beginning of time. “Tell us what you knew.”

“What do you think?” she spat. She brought her hands to her head, her fingers lost in her twisted hair. “I knew that someone would catch on.”

“Catch on to what?”

“What do you think? To the Army.”

Gail checked silently with Jonathan to see if any of this made sense to him. It didn’t.

“Sit, Stacy,” Gail said, more forcefully this time. It was the command you’d use for a dog. “Sit, settle down, and start from the beginning.”

Stacy just stood there, her right hand in her hair, the other on her hip, staring out the front window. Jonathan recognized it as a posture of angst. She was trying to decide between doing right or wrong. Gail started to say something, but Jonathan raised a hand. They needed to give her a minute.