I close my eyes, forcing myself to memorize the man’s voice, the inflections, the slight accent, and I do my best to tamp down the emotions roaring through me, from fear to terror to pure hate.

“All right,” I say.

He says, “I know there are instructions for you, left on your dining room table. Those instructions are not a joke. If we get any indication that you have contacted any law enforcement agency, either civilian or military, then you will never hear back from us, and you will never see your husband or daughter again.”

“Who is the prisoner?” I ask.

The man says, “Let’s just say one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter, and leave it at that.”

“Where is this man?” I go on, eyes still closed, still working the problem. “Where in Three Rivers?”

“Do you agree to this task?”

The black hate in me that’s been stirred up by this man wants me to scream, What choice do you think I have, asshole?

But I keep it professional.

Trying to keep my voice calmer than my mind, I say, “I need assurances that my husband and daughter are safe.”

The man says, “That sounds reasonable. Hold on.”

I put the Ruger on the table, push a finger into my other ear, try to see if I can hear anything going on, anything that will help me later.

Nothing.

Another male voice comes on the phone, and this voice nearly buckles my knees. It’s clear but filled with emotion.

“Amy,” my husband says, his voice strained but tired. “Denise and I are just fine.”

I dig my finger deeper into my ear, focusing hard on listening for any sounds in the background that might provide a clue to where Tom is calling from.

But I don’t hear anything useful.

I ask, “Tom, what’s the day today?”

He sounds puzzled. “It’s Tuesday.”

A murmur and the other man comes back on the line. “What was that all about?”

I open my eyes, and the safe and happy dining room seems to mock me.

“I needed to know that my husband’s voice wasn’t a recording,” I say. “I have the assurance. I’ll perform your task. What’s the address?”

“Linden Street, Three Rivers, Texas. Number forty-six.”

“What’s the prisoner’s name?”

The caller pauses, just for the briefest of seconds.

Why?

He goes on. “His name can change from month to month. It makes no difference to you successfully doing your job. You’ll know him when you see him. He’ll be the one without a weapon.”

“Why is he being held? What has he done?”

The man says, “Captain, please. Will that make any difference to you? If he made car bombs in Afghanistan, or shot up a school in Pakistan, or dropped an airliner over the Sudan, will you still not free him to retrieve your family?”

I keep my mouth shut. I’m ashamed that he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

He clears his throat. “There’s a pre-programmed number in the phone. That will be your only means of contacting me, but I only expect two more phone calls from you via that number: one telling me that you’ve retrieved the prisoner, and one when you have arrived at the exchange site. Phone calls begging for more time, for more flexibility, for another chance to speak to your husband or daughter—those will be ignored. Is that clear?”