Carrying a coffee mug, Max swiveled in his chair and headed toward a kitchenette. “I’m telling you Rambo gets killed in the novel. Colonel Trautman shoots him.”

“No, no, no. Rambo can’t die.”

“That’s what Stallone said. That’s why the movie ends the way it does.” Max poured coffee.

“Then why would Stallone end the novel that way? You’re not making sense.”

“Stallone didn’t write the novel.”

“You’re starting to bother me.”

“I’m telling you.”

“Then who the hell wrote the novel?”

“I can’t remember.” Max returned to his chair and sat.

“You’re making all this up.”

As they talked, she studied the room.

On her left was an expansive gun cabinet in which a dozen M4 assault rifles stood neatly in a line. Boxes of ammo were piled on shelves. To her right a wooden staircase climbed upward. All four walls were made of concrete blocks. There were no windows. The place had the feel of not only being secure but underground.

She focused again on the men at the big console. They were watching a screen twice as large as the others. It showed a grid on which a green dot was slowly traveling along one of the lines.

“He’s on the move,” Max said.

Rudy laughed. “And he’s no Rambo.”

A phone rang somewhere in the chamber.

Max pressed a button on the computer, and a woman’s disembodied voice reported from a speaker, “We’ve got Simon Childs on a leash. I need you to e-mail me a video of Sansborough every couple of hours to keep him motivated, until he delivers the package.”

At Simon’s name, Liz tensed, feeling fresh pain roll through her. Now she remembered. The men had made her beg Simon for help. So Simon was involved and there was a “package.” What was so important that they’d kidnapped her to get Simon to do what they wanted?

“Not a problem,” Rudy said. He turned and grinned at Liz. “You want us to hurt her some more?”

“Not yet. Maybe later.”

Liz stared back at the asshole, refusing to show fear.

But they’d let her see their faces.

No way could they allow her to live.

• • •

AS SIMON STARED AT THE phone in his hand, a car horn startled him. He jerked his head up, abruptly aware of the restaurant’s parking lot. A taxi was stopping at the building’s entrance and the passenger was getting out. He ran to the taxi, veered in front of a waiting couple, and lunged into the backseat.

“Hoover Building,” he told the surprised driver.

While the taxi merged into the morning traffic, Simon examined the phone. The woman had told him it had an open mic. In that case Liz’s captors would now have heard where he was going. But he’d been ordered to use his influence, so his destination shouldn’t alarm them.

He hoped.

The time on the phone was 9:54 a.m.

Less than twelve hours remained.

He and Liz were scheduled to be married ten days from now, and by God he was going to make certain it happened.