Chris Jordan - Torn

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s big stupid man who made big stupid mistake. You come here looking for someone, make lots of noise, very clever, and my men show you where he lives.”

“I told you, I’m looking for my wife.”

Kavashi smiles. “Randall Shane has no wife. He has nothing. One small house, one big car. No wife, no children. They die, very sad. Randall Shane has nervous breakdown, can’t sleep, quits FBI, or maybe they fire him, who knows?”

“I demand a lawyer. You have no right to hold me.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Shane? You cheat to get inside. You pretend to listen to very good wisdom of Arthur Conklin. You ask about Eldon Barlow, where he lives. Why? What do you want?”

Shane thinks about it. Kavashi has managed to find, if not a photograph, a physical description of Shane on the Net, undoubtedly from one of the missing child forums. So, given his reach and resources, he knows pretty much everything. Except, possibly, the identity of whoever snatched Haley Corbin. Although Shane has helpfully led him to the front door, so to speak, and undoubtedly put the Barlows in danger, wherever they are.

Nice move, he thinks. Could I possibly screw it up any more?

Shane figures he has, at best, one last chance to convince Kavashi to let him go. The convincer is, he’ll come clean, or as clean as he dares.

“The FBI knows I’m here,” Shane says.

Kavashi seems unimpressed. “So they know you cheat and lie and pretend to be someone else? Means nothing. Do you have warrant, Mr. Shane? Does FBI have warrant? Answer is no. Rulers good people, we have nothing to hide, no reason to lie. You are the one who is hiding, lying, and breaking law.”

“So kick me out,” Shane suggests. Figuring now that he’s seen the layout he can find another way back in. Go dark this time, do a creepy-crawly, starting with the shuttered ski lodge.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Kavashi says, getting to his feet.

“You can’t hold me. This is a private security company, not a legal police force.”

Under the mustache, Kavashi’s lips curl. “We have compact with State of Colorado. Means we can hold suspect of crime until state troopers come and take away. Maybe I call troopers tomorrow morning, bring you out to checkpoint, hand you over. All legal. All correct.”

Kavashi looks as though he’s in a mood to maybe continue the conversation, lord it over his captive for a while, but he’s interrupted by a security officer who comes in the door, whispers something to the boss.

Kavashi’s expression changes. He’s all business, no longer amused. “Right away,” he says to the officer.

Then he steps forward, fires the reloaded Taser into Shane’s prone body, and gives him the full thirty seconds of fifty-thousand volt electromuscular disruption. The forever jolt.

Missy Barlow thinks the world is about to end, and for all I know, she’s right. The monitors show a number of cruisers parked on the street below the house, and some of the cops, all of them warmly dressed, seem to have fanned out, covering every possible exit.

Clearly they know someone is hiding inside.

“It’s a SWAT team,” she decides. “They’re going to shoot us.”

Her creepy husband glares at me, as if the whole thing is my fault. He’s been trying to raise Ruler Weems on his handy-dandy Iridium satellite phone, but so far no luck. Maybe that’s my fault, too.

“I didn’t see any rifles,” I point out. “Don’t SWAT guys have rifles?”

“They’ll storm inside,” she insists, savoring her fear. “Shoot us down like dogs.”

It’s sad, but she’s stopped turning to her husband for comfort. His solution to all problems is to ask Ruler Weems what to do, and since Weems is unreachable, he has nothing to recommend. Though he seems to be leaning in the direction of sacrificing me for the common good. More accurately, for his own good. And the weird thing is, I’m not exactly opposed to the idea.

Not getting shot, of course. Quite the reverse. What will happen if I appear at the door, hands raised? These may be private security officers, but from what I see they look like normal people. Will they really shoot an unarmed woman? Do they even know who I am, or that my son is being confined elsewhere in this crazed community? Or have they simply been dispatched to kick down the doors and round up whoever happens to be inside?

All things considered, wouldn’t it be safer to surrender before the shooting starts?

Given the way I was treated after Noah’s school blew up, I have no great love for law enforcement organizations. Too rigid, too narrow-minded, and despite what they say, too unwilling to see things from the victim’s point of view. But certain individual cops had been fine, had helped me get through the worst of it. Troy Hayden, the acting police chief. Tommy Petruchio, the young State Trooper. Randall Shane, not so young, perhaps, but stalwart and dogged, and the first to really believe me. Maybe there’s one out there like them. Willing to listen, willing to help. What are the odds?

Not good, according to Missy.

“They’re not even Rulers, okay? They’re certainly not cops. They’re more like mercenaries, guns for hire, and they answer to Kavashi. He signs their paychecks. They may not shoot you on sight, but they’ll turn you over to the big boss, and believe me, honey, you don’t want that. Eldon knew this guy who wouldn’t pay his share-in? Vash broke both his knees and then framed him as a child molester. Planted stuff on his computer, confiscated his accounts, ruined his life. Supposedly the guy committed suicide, and who knows, maybe he did. But it was Vash made him do it.”

“Lovely.”

“Missy, don’t,” Eldon says, looking up from his sat-phone.

“What, don’t share? She’s here with us, she should know what can happen.”

“She’s not a Ruler. That’s privileged information.”

“Eldon, they’re getting ready to kill us, okay? Is that privileged?”

“Look at the monitors, Missy! At the moment all they’re doing is standing guard. They’re just regular security guards, not his special-ops people. We still have time to fix this.”

“If Wendy answers his phone.”

“Don’t call him Wendy. That’s an insult.”

“Okay, Ruler Weems. Did you ever think maybe there’s a reason he’s not answering? Like maybe Vash already got him? It’s over, Eldon, they’re just prolonging the agony.”

Her husband rolls his eyes, returns to his precious phone. Sweat beading on his Botox-smooth forehead, rolling down from his hairline. I’m almost positive he’s had a permanent so he and Missy can have matching hairdos. Maybe not the worst thing in the world, but given the circumstances, far from reassuring.

“We’ll be okay,” he mutters.

Meaning, I’m convinced, that he and Missy will be okay. Whatever ‘we’ means to Eldon Barlow, I’m not included. He doesn’t strike me as a cold-blooded killer, but if bullets come our way, he’ll duck behind me, if not hold me out front. And whatever he’s risked for Ruler Weems-pretty much everything, from what I can see-he’s surely regretting it now.

“Why don’t they just do it?” Missy mutters, staring at the monitors. “What are they waiting for?”

“We’re the bigger faction,” Eldon reminds her. “It may not feel that way sometimes, but Evangeline represents a fairly small minority.”

“But look who,” Missy says plaintively. “All of them really important, really powerful. Plus almost all of them are Sixes. How are we supposed to fight against that?”

“We must keep our minds clear. This is a test of our resolve. We face the new day with a new mind. Never forget.”