Touch & Go

  “Denbe first.” A barking command.

  Z indicated to the slot in the door. Justin presented his wrists, which were immediately bound with zip ties. I went next. Then Ashlyn. When we were all secured, Z made a motion with his hand, and with a buzzing snap, our steel door swung open.

  Z kept his gaze on Justin, who walked out with his shoulders back and chin up, his bruised face clearly defiant.

  Immediately the tension ratcheted up another notch.

  Don’t do anything stupid, I found myself thinking. Please don’t do anything stupid.

  Except I wasn’t sure what that was anymore. Here we were, once again bound and helpless. Stupid only applied if our captors really were going to let us go. They had other options, of course. For example, placing a bullet through each of our heads the second the ransom funds appeared in their account. Not like we could stop them. Not like the police were standing by to help us the moment the money was delivered.

  One way or another, we were still on our own, and I could feel the tight restrictions of the plastic zip tie digging into my wrists.

  Z took Justin by the elbow. He indicated for the ladies to walk first. Once Ashlyn and I ventured uncertainly forward into the shadowed dayroom, he and Justin fell in step behind us. Clearly, Z had pegged Justin as the primary threat, to be monitored at all times. I wish I could disagree, chortle gleefully to myself that if only he knew. Instead, I felt a rising sense of hysteria and had to suppress the ridiculous urge to tug on my freshly washed hair.

  At the sally port, we had to pause. I wondered who was in the control room. Mick or Radar? Z gestured to the security camera and the first set of doors rolled open. We stepped inside. Another pause. The clang of steel slamming shut behind us, plunging us into a deep dark, broken up only by the dim glow of green emergency lights, illuminating faint puddles of floor. I could feel Ashlyn shudder beside me, and move closer.

  Then, more slowly than I would’ve liked, the next set of heavy steel doors slowly opened. A broad hallway loomed before us. Also lit by emergency lights. We must’ve come this way before, but everything looked different without the bright wash of overhead lights. The prison had taken on the spooky feel of a haunted house, and while I knew it was daylight outside, already I felt isolated, my shoulders hunching, my chin tucking down as if the ceiling were lower, the walls closing in.

  “Walk,” Z ordered, and very tentatively, Ashlyn and I shuffled forward.

  We followed the puddles of green glow to another set of doors. Turned out to be a second sally port. More clanging as steel doors slammed shut behind us. A sound that got under the skin. A sound I never wanted to hear again.

  The closing doors once more plunged us into darkness. We waited, Ashlyn bouncing on her toes beside me, until the forward set of doors slowly rolled open. Was it just me, or had this set of doors taken much longer? Had to be Mick in the control room. Having a little fun at our expense.

  I willed my face to be impassive. I would not give him the satisfaction of showing my fear.

  Z urged us forward. We walked, losing our sense of direction in the shadowy green maze of prison corridors. Suddenly, the hallway lightened. We came to a stretch with large exterior windows awash with daylight. Then, across from that, an enclosed chamber lined with windows that had been heavily fortified with horizontal bars.

  The control room. Had to be. I could see monitors and panels and all sorts of crazy computer equipment that meant nothing to me but probably everything to my husband.

  They were going to do it. Exchange us for ransom. We would go home; they would get nine million dollars.

  We would go home.

  I stared at the now empty room, door open, our ticket to safety.

  I took one more step, then from behind, Z grabbed my arm and drew me up short.

  He said, “Not so fast.”

  And I shuddered, feeling my heart stop in my chest.

  “HERE’S THE DEAL,” Z continued shortly. “It’s two fifty-five P.M. I’m going to let you into the control room. I’m going to hand you a phone. I’m going to remove your wrist constraints.”

  Z stopped looking at Ashlyn and me, staring at Justin instead. “At which point, you have the power to lock down this prison. You could even attempt to trap me inside. But you should know, Radar and Mick are already out. They’re armed with a full arsenal of weapons, which they are exceptionally well trained at using. I’m guessing that between them, they could pick off at least thirty-six to forty-eight first responders without even breaking into a sweat. I know you might not care about that”—his gaze went hard, his fanged cobra tattoo moving restlessly as he frowned—“but I’m counting on the ladies to be your conscience.” His gaze flickered to us. “Play it smart, everyone goes home safe and sound. Try something stupid and there’ll be a lot of funerals on Friday. Including your own. I’m not a man who forgives, Denbe. And I know where you live.”

  Justin said nothing.

  I stepped forward, inserting myself into the space between them. “Tell us what you want us to do.”

  Z switched his attention to me. “The rest is easy. Call your husband’s cell phone using FaceTime. Wave to the nice FBI agent who plans on building her career around your safe return. Reiterate the wire transfer instructions. Radar is monitoring the account. The second we have confirmation the funds have been received, we’re gone. By three eleven, on the other hand, if no money has been received, we start with plan B.”

  Z’s gaze back on Justin. “Want to know Radar’s real expertise? He’s a demolitions expert. Sure, your control room has ballistic-rated glass. But trust me, Radar can take out an armored tank. Your reinforced fish tank, not a problem. Better hope the FBI has their act together. Better hope they’re also going for smart today, and not planning anything stupid.”

  I hadn’t even thought of that, and now I felt my nervousness ramp up double-time. “Wait a minute, wait a minute. But we don’t control them, we have no way of knowing… What if they don’t wire the money? It’s not our fault!”

  Z merely shrugged his massive shoulders as he dragged us toward the open control room. I wanted to dig in my heels. All of a sudden, this didn’t seem like such a great idea. I’d been worried about my husband’s rash actions. Now I had to worry about an entire law enforcement team as well?

  “By three eleven, if we don’t have the money, you’ll get to hear a very large boom. You might want to duck for cover. You know, just to give yourselves a sporting chance.”

  Then, we were in the control room and Z was wielding a knife. No time to panic. No time to scream.

  Slash, slash, slash.

  Our wrists were free.

  A phone was shoved into Justin’s hands.

  Then Z was gone, the heavy control room door booming shut in his wake.

  We were alone, unshackled, and for the first time ever, in charge of our prison.

  I stood stock-still, my first taste of quasi-freedom leaving me completely immobilized.

  Not my husband.

  “All right,” Justin declared briskly. “This is what we’re going to do.”

  THE IPHONE CONTINUED TO CHIME. After a split second, Nicole kicked into gear. She waved a hand, indicating for everyone to take position.

  Then she stood in front of the Denbes’ family-room painting, now hanging in a sheriff’s office three hours north, and answered the phone, activating FaceTime.

  Hawkes had wired the phone to a larger TV screen so the rest of them could watch the show.

  Justin Denbe’s face appeared, his swollen eye and misshapen nose a pulpy mess. But there was no mistaking the determination on his face.

  “This is Justin Denbe. I’m here with my wife, Libby, and daughter, Ashlyn.” A quick sweep of the phone screen. Libby Denbe appeared briefly, seemingly frozen in place, nearly petrified with fear. Their fifteen-year-old daughter, Ashlyn, however, was literally bouncing up and down in agitation. “We are safe and secure. Please wire the money by three eleven, or they will blow us up
.”

  Hawkes made a rolling motion with his finger to drag out the call. Nicole tapped her foot once to indicate she got it.

  “This is Nicole Adams, special agent, FBI. We are happy to be in contact with you, Justin, and to receive confirmation that you and your family are alive and well.”

  “You have eight minutes,” Justin replied crisply.

  “We understand. And the account number for the wire instructions is…” Nicole rattled off the long string, repeating it twice. At the computer, Hawkes continued to tap the keyboard frantically, exchanging messages with Denbe’s cellular provider, who would now be working to trace the incoming call. Tessa stood at Hawkes’s shoulder, Wyatt beside her. She found herself holding her breath.

  “The insurance company has instructed us to wire one million dollars as a good faith deposit,” Nicole continued. “They won’t release the remaining eight million without further assurances of your safety.”

  “In six minutes,” Justin replied tersely, “that account either receives nine million dollars or they blow us up.”

  “Are they there, Justin?” Nicole continued evenly. “Can I speak to the person in charge?”

  “No.”

  “No, I can’t speak…?”

  “No, they aren’t here. We’re alone in the control room. We can keep them locked out, meaning we are safe from immediate physical assault. Explosives, on the other hand…” Justin’s tone was droll. He didn’t seem nervous to Tessa. Just…grim. A man who knew the score.

  Beside her, Wyatt mouthed the words control room. Wyatt studied her. Tessa shrugged.

  “Libby and Ashlyn are with you, but not your captors? You are alone?” Nicole continued. While her face remained impassive, one leg trembled beneath her. High-stakes poker, with other people’s lives at stake.

  “Five minutes,” Justin said. Then, for the first time, his tone broke. “Look, I know you’re trying to trace this call. They know you’re trying to trace this call. I’m telling you, you don’t have time. For the next five minutes, my family and I are safe. That’s as good as it’s going to get. Now you get that fucking money in that fucking account, or your next visual will be myself, my wife and my daughter being blown to shit!”

  “I understand. Your safety is our number one concern. Of course, we have to work with the insurance company—”

  “Listen to me. This is not a negotiation. I am not in touch with our captors, they are not on this line. They are standing very far away, holding a detonator. They are monitoring the account. Either the money appears by three eleven, or they flip the kill switch. Those are the options.”

  “Control room,” Wyatt muttered again beside Tessa. He was nudging her with his arm, as if that term should mean something to her. “The pile of personal possessions on the kitchen counter—wallet, jewelry…”

  “Justin,” Nicole was saying, “I understand your concerns. Trust me, we’re on your side. But if they have wired your room with explosives, how do we know they won’t activate them either way?”

  “Because rich men have incentive to get away. Poor men don’t.”

  Then, Tessa got it. She turned toward Wyatt, keeping her voice low even as her eyes widened. “Prison. Prisons have control rooms. But, how could you smuggle a family into a prison unless…”

  Wyatt was already one step ahead: “The new state facility,” he supplied grimly. “Completed last year, never been open. Locals still furious over the lost job opportunities, the waste of taxpayer funds. How much you want to bet—”

  “It was built by Denbe Construction.”

  “Meaning Justin knows exactly where he is. And if he’s still not providing his location…”

  “He’s scared.”

  “Suspects must really have access to explosives.” Wyatt grabbed a yellow legal pad. Wrote in giant black marker: WIRE $$ NOW. And held it up for Nicole.

  The special agent never blinked, simply stated into the phone: “Good news, Justin. The insurance company has approved the full nine million. The money is being transferred as we speak. Couple of minutes more, Justin. Then you and your family will be safe.”

  Tessa and Wyatt didn’t wait for the rest. They were already bolting from the room, Wyatt on the radio, sending out the request for backup over the preset emergency channel. Then, they were in the parking lot, piling into his cruiser.

  “Thirty miles north,” Wyatt declared. “We should be there in twenty.”

  He hit the sirens and roared onto the road.

  Chapter 38

  JUSTIN WAS ON THE PHONE. Talking, talking, talking.

  Beside him, Ashlyn was bobbing up and down, looking more like herself, in her old pajamas, and yet not at all like herself, with her tightly drawn features and the anxiety radiating from every taut line of her body.

  And myself… Facing the possible final ten minutes of my own life, I didn’t know what to do. I wandered around the room, which was bigger than I would’ve thought, with a broad, horseshoe-shaped control desk plopped in the middle of a larger area lined by charging walkie-talkies and several doors I assumed led to supply closets. I found the infamous key drop, an open metal tube into which, in case of emergency, a corrections officer would drop all keys, rendering them inaccessible to attacking inmates, and thus keeping all ammunition and firearms closets secured.

  I turned my attention to the massive control desk, gliding my hands over the plain white Formica desktop, the various flat-screen monitors inlaid at an angled rise, then the half a dozen microphones that sprouted up like weeds. The corrections officers were locked in here, I thought, isolated by their very powerfulness. A mini set of wizards of Oz, seeing all, commanding all, but forever trapped behind the barred curtain.

  Above me, mounted from the ceiling, hung a line of four flat-screen TVs. They were off now, but I bet this was how our captors had monitored us, reviewing various images from the dozens if not hundreds of security cameras. They had watched us cry. Watched us fight. Watched us slowly but surely break down into lesser beings, the total deconstruction of a family.

  It made me suddenly furious. That they’d violated our privacy like that. Sat here in this locked room, maybe even took bets on our misery. Ten bucks says the woman cries first, five bucks says the girl can’t pee with an audience.

  I hated them. Intensely. Virulently. Which, perversely, made me want to see them. Turnabout is fair play. If they’d once been able to study us like animals in a zoo, well, we had the control now. And there was nothing in Z’s terms that said we couldn’t monitor them.

  I bent over, and while my husband cursed out some FBI agent for not having magically done exactly what he’d told her to do exactly when he’d demanded that she do it, I started powering up control screens and exploring the surveillance options.

  “Mom?” Ashlyn appeared beside me.

  “Just kicking the tires, honey. Now, if we wanted to see the view from the cameras outside the prison, which buttons would you hit?”

  Ashlyn leaned around me, tapped the control screen where a white button indicated security and we both studied the menu that came up next.

  The screen had a clock in the lower right-hand corner. It read 3:09. Two minutes till our captors gave up and launched a counterattack. Possibly even blew us up, as Justin was alleging.

  I didn’t think Z would take out the room. He struck me as the kind of man who’d neatly eliminate the door. That way he could march through the smoking rubble, pull out a Glock 10 and tend to the rest of his business up close and personal. Waste less ammo.

  On the monitor, a white van suddenly came into view. Growing larger and larger until it nearly filled the screen. I found myself staring at Radar, sitting behind the wheel. He was not looking up at the camera, no doubt mounted above the prison’s intake door, but was looking toward the passenger’s side, as if expecting someone.

  Picking up. He was picking up Z and Mick, his cocaptors.

  But he was supposed to be on the roof. Armed to the teeth and ready to fire upon
first responders.

  Unless the money had been paid. Wired straight into the account. Justin had been right: Rich men had nine million more reasons to make a quick getaway than poor men.

  The clock on the bottom of the screen hit 3:10.

  Radar, holding up his phone, saying something I couldn’t hear to a person I couldn’t see.

  My gaze, flying up to find Justin. “Did they pay? Is it okay, did the insurance company pay?”

  Justin, into the phone: “Have the funds been received? It’s three eleven, tell me the funds have been received?”

  The FBI agent, her voice as crisp and authoritative as ever: “Justin, I have word that the money is being transferred right now.”

  Radar, still studying his phone, hitting some buttons. Talking to the person I couldn’t see.

  “Justin, the funds have been delivered. Can you please advise us as to your location? We have officers standing by for the safe recovery of your family.”

  “Mom!” Ashlyn cried, clutching my arm, bouncing even higher at the news. We were safe, funds received, we were safe, the police would be on their way.

  Justin, sounding abruptly tired, as if the good news had taken more out of him than our impending deaths: “We are currently at the new state prison. Located—”

  Boom!

  I turned toward the control room door, breath already catching. Expecting to spot Z, striding through the smoke and rubble like the Terminator, ready to mow down all the officers in the police station, or, in our case, a helpless family stuck in a control room.

  The locked door was intact, the bank of barred windows intact. No Z. No smoking rubble.

  “Mom!” My daughter, yanking on my arm as she screamed hysterically.

  I turned back just in time to see Mick come barreling out of the door I’d assumed was a supply closet. He was grinning madly and, true to Z’s words, was armed to the teeth.

  “Miss me?” he called out.

  Then he leveled his semiauto, and while we stood there, the proverbial fish in a barrel, he opened fire.

  WHILE WYATT DROVE, Tessa worked the phone. She got Chris Lopez on the line, demanding to know anything and everything he could tell them about the state prison Denbe Construction had built in the wilds of New Hampshire.