“Impossible,” Tom whispers, knowing with a hard kernel inside of him that this tough yet soft-spoken man before him is even more dangerous than he can imagine.

“Oh, no, quite possible,” his captor says. “You think you can rest comfortably in what’s known as the Western world, write your stories, your opinion pieces, using unnamed sources or receiving leaks, not caring who or what might be feeding you information. Information that once is in print, under your name, can be used as a weapon and used to threaten, bribe, or kill others in far distant lands.”

Tom keeps on staring at the metal object. “Please don’t hurt Denise. Please. She’s only ten.”

Pelayo’s voice gets sharp. “And you think your wife’s actions and your crafted words haven’t killed ten-year-old girls over the years? Really?”

“Please…”

“Enough, then. I will leave you with this choice, here and now. We depart this room and leave Hamid with your daughter, after I tell him what your family has done to his family. I tell him not to cause permanent damage…but we return thirty minutes later. Or…”

Pelayo holds up the small metal contraption. Tom sees it and remembers a dinner party last year, the husband of a prominent DC journalist was in attendance and insisted on preparing his own homemade desserts for all the guests…

“Not Hamid,” Tom says.

“A good father, then. Are you left-handed or right?”

“Right.”

“Then extend your left hand and roll up your sleeve.”

Denise sees what’s going on and says, “Daddy? Daddy?”

Tom tries to keep his voice even for his daughter’s sake. “Can you take her out for a moment? I don’t want her to see this.”

Pelayo goes tsk-tsk. “That is not possible, my friend. Even at her age, she must suffer the actions of her family.”

Tom’s mouth is dry and his legs are shaking. The thick man named Tonton comes around and grabs his left arm by the elbow and wrist, holding it stretched out and still.

Tom tries to be brave. “That’s not necessary.”

Pelayo says, “Trust me, I know from experience. It is necessary.”

Tom yells out, “Denise! Don’t look!”

With that, Pelayo switches on the small crème brûlée torch, and gently runs the 2,700-degree flame up the length of Tom’s exposed arm. The sizzling noise and smell of burnt hair and skin makes him yell until his throat is hoarse.

CHAPTER 40

I DON’T slow down until I cross the Georgia border into eastern Alabama, and then I get a good case of the shakes once again when I’m on US Highway 59, heading southwest. I’m still not sure why that Tennessee state trooper was interested in me, because I really doubt that my boss, Lieutenant Colonel Denton, would have listed me as AWOL after less than twenty-four hours, and then put my name and vehicle ID into the NCIC.

Unless he got pressure from someone to do so.

Who?

The people behind the kidnapping of Tom and Denise? Why? They would want me to get to Three Rivers. Why throw up a roadblock by listing me in the NCIC?