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  Maybe so. It was getting more and more difficult to explain the lack of uniforms and the presence of long hair and a beard. For all Christyne knew, maybe Ryan had already figured it out for himself-surely boys talked among themselves at school-but Dylan had been disappointed that the proud excitement that he’d expected from his son had never materialized. Ryan had just listened and said nothing. That had always been his way. A born poker player.

  In Christyne’s mind, breaking the news to their son had marked the dividing line between Happy Ryan and Dark Ryan. Dylan insisted that the link did not exist-in fact, Dylan insisted that Ryan was just being a teenager-but Dylan wasn’t around, was he? He didn’t see the way Ryan was pulling away from his friends, or how he walked out of the room every time a news report spoke of casualties in Afghanistan or Iraq.

  “You’re watching me again,” Ryan said without looking-a little too loudly because of the earbuds.

  “I’m just admiring what a handsome young man you are.”

  He cleared one ear. “What?”

  She repeated what she’d said. It was true, too. He’d inherited his father’s natural athleticism and his green eyes. To see Ryan was to think of Dylan, and vice versa.

  “You’re being weird again, Mom,” he said.

  She smiled. Deep down inside, what child doesn’t want to know that he looks good?

  Despite the fact that it was only November, many of the merchants in Old Town Alexandria had already put up their Christmas decorations, and the effect was breathtaking. Fayetteville in general, and Fort Bragg in particular, had none of this kind of culture, and the lack of it was a primary motivator for this yearlong sojourn to stay with her sister and her family in Mount Vernon.

  Christyne understood that Dylan’s job required his full-time commitment. He’d achieved his life’s dream-assignment to the First Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, the best of the best: Delta Force-and that made him one of the nation’s go-to guys whenever something bad happened in the world. He loved his job, and she loved him, and when he needed her to be someplace, nothing would be able to keep her away.

  When Dylan was on deployment, though, and she knew that he would be gone for months or years at a time, the closeness of the Fort Bragg community became stifling. Every day, there was a funeral somewhere, or a deployment somewhere else. Every second of every day bore a shroud, a constant reminder that one day Dylan might come home in a body bag. When he was there, it was different-he was her happiness; but when he was at war, all she wanted to do some nights was cry.

  She’d moved here in late August, specifically so that Ryan would get an entire year in his new school, and so far it seemed he was adapting well. Her son had turned out to be something of a track star, earning a drawerful of ribbons in sprinting and hurdling. In fact, they were on their way home from such a meet right now, Ryan having finished first in the two-hundred-meter hurdles with a lead of five seconds over his nearest competitor.

  “What’s with that guy?” Ryan asked, pulling out his earbuds and pointing ahead through the windshield.

  She followed his finger to the street corner ahead and saw a teenager in a flowing black coat waving in a frantic effort to flag them down. Them. Their car.

  “Do you recognize him?” she asked. He was older than Ryan, but he could have been a senior in his high school, she supposed.

  “I think it’s a her,” Ryan grunted. “But no.”

  By golly, he was right. It was a girl, and she appeared to be in distress. Christyne nudged her blinker and pulled to the curb.

  “What are you doing?” Ryan protested.

  “Look at her, sweetie. Something’s wrong. She needs help.” The stranger’s face was a mask of angst.

  “Do you know her?” Ryan was clearly upset by the prospect of picking up a stranger.

  The frantic young woman hurried to the van’s sliding door and pulled on the handle. When it wouldn’t open, she knocked on the window. Three rapid taps on the glass.

  “Drive off, Mom,” Ryan said. “We don’t-”

  Christyne pushed the rocker button to unlock the door. She was a child, for God’s sake. How could she not offer a hand?

  The teenager pulled open the door and peeked in. “I need a ride,” she said. “There’s a guy up there shooting everybody. Please. We need to get out of here.”

  Christyne gasped. “ Shooting? Where?”

  “On the bridge, right up there.” She pointed toward Maryland. “Please.”

  “Oh, my God,” Christyne said. She beckoned the girl inside. “Yes. Get in.”

  “Mom!” The way Ryan said it, the word had two syllables.

  “Hush,” she commanded, drilling him with her maternal death glare. She watched, her pulse pounding, as the newcomer climbed inside and planted herself into the backseat.

  “How do we even know that she’s telling the truth?” Ryan tried again. “I didn’t hear any shooting.”

  The teenager slammed the door shut, and an instant later, they were moving. “Oh, I’m telling the truth,” Colleen Devlin said. She drew a pistol from under her coat and pointed it at Ryan’s head. “And if you don’t want the shooting to start up again, you’ll keep driving and do exactly as I say.”

  “What’s your name?” Colleen asked the terrified youngster in the front seat.

  The kid stared straight ahead, his eyes wet and red.

  “Don’t let the gun scare you,” Colleen said. “I won’t use it unless you or your mom make me. Now, what’s your name?”

  Mom said, “His name is Ryan. I’m Christyne. Please don’t hurt us.”

  “Hurt or not hurt, that’s up to you,” Colleen explained. “But I didn’t ask you what his name was. I asked him.” She touched the muzzle of her weapon to the base of Ryan’s skull. “Let’s try again. What’s your name?”

  He continued to stare straight ahead. “Ryan,” he mumbled.

  Colleen smiled. “Nice to meet you, Ryan.” Brother Michael had trained the Army on intimidation techniques, so Colleen knew how important it was to maintain control of every conversation. Compliance with every command or question was mandatory.

  “Why are you doing this?” Christyne asked.

  “Because I just shot a bunch of people and I need to get away.” At this point, the truth served her better than any lie.

  “Where are you taking us?”

  “Just keep going straight and follow directions,” Colleen said. “Ryan, you’re being really quiet.”

  He turned his head and shot a nervous glance at her pistol. His eyes showed fear, but something else was there, too. Not defiance, exactly, but close to it.

  “It’s a Glock,” Colleen explained, answering what she figured to be the unasked question. “Forty caliber. Devastator hollow points, and in case you don’t know, that means there’s no fixing the holes it makes in people.” Brother Michael had demonstrated the Devastator last summer at the Farm, using a dummy human torso made of ballistic gelatin.

  She went on, “And the thing about the Glock is it’s got a really sensitive trigger. Nobody here wants me nervous, okay? I say that to you, Ryan, because you know why?”

  The boy continued to stare.

  “Because you look like you’re thinking about being a hero. Even though you probably don’t like your mom all the time-what teenager does?-I’m sure you don’t want me to blow her brains out.”

  Christyne gasped at the words and nearly drove off the road.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Colleen said. “Stay in your lane, Christyne. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. An obvious lie.

  “Good. I need you to be okay, and I need you to listen carefully, because this is the kind of thing that could get everybody killed.” Colleen paused to make sure she had their attention. “If I were in your position-driving a car with your child at risk-I might think about driving crazy just to attract a cop’s attention. Ryan, if I were you, looking at a bad situation and wondering how to fix it, I might think abo
ut opening the door and just diving out into traffic. You were thinking about that, weren’t you?”

  Mother and son looked at each other.

  “I thought so,” Colleen said. “It’s only natural, but you need to know that it would be a huge mistake. See, I just killed a dozen people-maybe more, maybe less, but a lot of people. I don’t want to kill you, too, but don’t think that I wouldn’t. I’m even prepared to kill myself if it comes to that.”

  “You sound desperate,” Christyne said.

  “Committed,” Colleen corrected. “To a cause that’s way bigger than any of us. If you do as I say, you’ll see tomorrow. I can’t guarantee the day after, but you’ll be here tomorrow. That’s worth not being stupid, isn’t it?”

  Mother and son conferred with their eyes, and then Christyne spoke for them both. “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Colleen said. “Do you know how to get to Sixty-Six West?” She was referring to the primary east-west highway across Virginia and beyond.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. So do I. For the time being, that’s where we’re going.”

  “What happens after that?” Ryan asked.

  Colleen gave him a hard look. “After that is tomorrow. I think you need to look at that as a gift.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jonathan hadn’t realized that Maryland owned the entire Potomac River. Thus, he was surprised that that state had jurisdiction over his arrest, even though he’d been much closer to the Virginia shore when Agent Clark took him down.

  They transported him to the Prince George’s County jail, notorious throughout the greater Washington Metropolitan Area as the place where prisoners occasionally died in their cells of blunt trauma that was caused by no one, despite the presence of deputies within shouting distance.

  Jonathan hadn’t spent much time on the wrong side of prison bars, but by his estimation, this was one tough place. Even more cheerless than other facilities of its kind, the jail was inexcusably filthy, and it reeked of shit and vomit. Jonathan imagined that someone had plugged a toilet, and no one with the power to fix it was inclined to do so. Peeling gray paint absorbed the yellow light cast from the stained and occasionally opaque wire-reinforced overhead light fixtures, casting a pall over the place that made most city morgues seem bright by comparison.

  By habit, Jonathan made note of the weaknesses as a rail-thin deputy named Engelhardt walked him through the various security airlocks on the way back to the cellblock. More advanced than some of the third-world rattraps from which he’d liberated a few clients over the years, the PG County jail was nowhere near as advanced as the staff seemed to think it was. With a properly trained team, Jonathan figured he could make a breach and be in and out with precious cargo in under six minutes. Exfiltration would prove to be a bitch once they got clear of the exterior walls, but that was a phase-two issue, and this was strictly an academic exercise.

  A breakout here would undoubtedly cost lives, and Jonathan had ironclad rules against harming American law-enforcement personnel.

  Engelhardt put him in a cell with three gangbangers likewise accused of murder. Jonathan hadn’t been arraigned yet, but he figured that that would be the charge if things went that far. “Thought we’d keep the killers together,” Engelhardt mumbled for his own amusement.

  What separated Jonathan from his cellies, of course, was the fact that they were guilty. He knew this because when he arrived, the young men were proudly recounting the efficiency with which they’d “capped that mother’s ass.” People really ought to listen to the lyrics when cops sing the Miranda song.

  The arrival of a middle-aged white guy seemed to lighten the mood of the cell. “Fresh meat!” one of the bangers yelled. The others laughed.

  Jonathan ignored them. The cell sported four bunks, two each on opposing walls, none of which appeared to have been claimed. The mattresses were still rolled, and the squatty cubes of linens remained untouched. Figuring that the top bunk closest to the toilet constituted the least desirable chunk of real estate, Jonathan targeted that one as his own. Without saying a word, he started to make up the bunk.

  A banger grabbed the fabric of Jonathan’s shirt and pulled him back. “Yo, asshole, what do you think you’re doing? You in our crib, you need our permission.”

  Jonathan locked eyes and swallowed the flash of anger. What he saw in the banger’s face made his heart bleed. Here was a guy in the prime of his life facing forever in a concrete cage because he killed somebody as part of what likely was a meaningless grudge match. He steadied himself with a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Jonathan said. “That was rude of me. May I please have that bunk?”

  The thug gaped for a moment, then exploded with a laugh. “Hell no, you can’t have it.”

  “Are you using it?”

  “I might.” The guy was at least three inches taller than Jonathan, and outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Now he was mugging for his buddies.

  And Jonathan was getting pissed. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you think about it, talk it over with your friends, and then let me know what you decide. Meanwhile, step aside and save us all a lot of heartache.” He turned back to the bunk. There were only a couple of ways the rest of this could go, and he didn’t anticipate a happy outcome.

  The banger made his choice, grabbing Jonathan by the arm and pulling him back again. Hard. Jonathan found himself whirling toward the concrete wall. He had to get his hands up fast to keep from kissing it. By the time he turned, the banger was six inches away, spouting threats and doing that arm-flapping thing that gangbangers do when they get blustery.

  Jonathan struck like a snake. He grabbed the guy’s balls with his left hand, his larynx with his right, and squeezed. Hard. The banger’s knees sagged, allowing Jonathan to pivot him so the wall would take some of the weight.

  He noted that the banger’s buddies did not rush to lend aid. If they had, Jonathan was ready to handle them; but as it was, he sensed that they were willing to let this assault run its course.

  “What’s his name?” Jonathan asked the buddies.

  “Hey, man, let him go. He can’t breathe.”

  “He’s going to be infertile, too. Name, please.”

  “Dion,” one of them said.

  “Thank you.” He burned his gaze through Dion’s skull. “Hi, Dion. My name’s Jonathan. My friends call me Digger. You can call me ‘sir.’” He squeezed harder with his left hand, and pain shot through Dion like a seizure.

  Jonathan let go with both hands and let the banger drop. He didn’t look tough anymore. Then again, it’s hard to look tough when you’re on the floor cradling your junk with both hands, gasping for air. That little whimpering sound didn’t help. Nor the piss stain.

  Crap. Jonathan looked at his soiled hand as if it might be covered with cockroaches. As he moved to the sink to wash his hands, the banger buddies remained riveted to their spots.

  “Here’s the thing, guys,” Jonathan explained, his tone the very essence of reason. “I tried to be friendly, but you didn’t want it that way.” He glanced over his shoulder just to make sure they weren’t moving on him.

  “You never even introduced yourselves,” he went on. “Talk about rude.” When he finished rinsing, he stepped toward the buddies. As he approached, they stepped back in unison. They jumped in unison, too, when he extended his hand. “Jonathan,” he said to the one on the left.

  The guy shot a look to his cohort, clearly unsure of what he should do.

  “Tell the man your name,” the friend said. He rolled his eyes, then reached past him to offer his hand. “I’m Luke,” he said.

  Jonathan shook his hand.

  “This is Jermaine. You already met Dion.”

  As Jonathan shook Jermaine’s hand, he noted that Dion’s breathing was returning to normal.

  “So, dude, are you like some martial-arts god or something?” Luke asked. His tone dripped admiration.

  “I’m just a guy,” Jonathan said. �
��Who happens to be really, really tired, and pretty much up to here with bullshit.” He pointed to a spot above his eyebrow.

  “But what did you do to him? I never seen Dion drop like that.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “Just got his attention is all. He’ll be fine.”

  “Man, that was like Spock shit, man. Could you have killed him like that if you’d wanted?”

  Jonathan winked. “He’ll be fine.”

  A heavy door opened down the hall and a voice boomed, “Graves! Wake up, you lucky sonofabitch. You’re getting sprung.” It was Engelhardt, and when he arrived at the cell door, his face turned into a question mark. “What’s his problem?” He pointed with his chin to Dion.

  Luke gave Jonathan’s shoulder a playful slap. “Asshole done got his attention.”

  Engelhardt didn’t care. “Stand back, guys. Your bunky gets to sleep in his own bed tonight.”

  “Ain’t that some shit,” Jermaine said, his first words.

  Jonathan’s posse stepped aside to allow the door to open and Jonathan to pass.

  “How’d you get sprung so fast?” Luke asked.

  Engelhardt answered for him. “Helps to have friends in high places. That high-and-mighty Secret Service agent who brought you in is sitting in receiving lookin’ like he swallowed a bucket of worms.”

  “This is bullshit,” Dion said. Now that a wall of bars separated them again, he seemed to have rediscovered his courage. He still stood funny, though. “You pull that cheap fightin’ stuff, and I’m supposed to believe you’re innocent?”

  Engelhardt had already taken two steps toward leading Jonathan to freedom, and Jonathan nearly let Dion’s bravado go unchallenged.

  Nearly. In the end, he couldn’t do it. He whirled on the bars, and Dion jumped back. “Look, you gangbanging moron, you need to decide if you want to sew your mouth shut or be fitted for a body bag.”