A risky move, but I needed the money and I also did it for another reason.

So low on cash, not knowing where I’m going, beyond the deadline.

Pretty crappy.

For some reason my overworked mind flashes back to the history of the Israeli-Arab war of 1967, the one called the Six-Day War. It was small Israel versus twelve Arab nations, and instead of waiting around to get slaughtered, the Israelis conducted a preemptive strike. Before the jets flew and the tanks rolled, an Israeli armored-division commander said, Each unit will push forward as fast as it can. Pay no attention to your flanks. Give no thought to resupply. If you lose nine tanks out of ten, keep advancing with the tenth. Stop for nothing.

Right now I’m my own unit, Task Force Cornwall, and I’m stopping for nothing.

Up ahead I see two young women walking by the side of the road, and I pull over. In a few seconds, after spinning a tale of woe about some shithead boyfriend who dumped me for parts unknown, I now know where Linden Street is located. I say thanks and get back to my driving.

My loved ones may be dead by now. Or the kidnapper could be secretly extending the deadline. Or the kidnapper could have choked on a chicken bone last night and be dead. Or Tom and Denise could have escaped on their own.

I don’t know.

As an intelligence officer, I need to deal with facts and figures. Making assumptions is forbidden. So are most educated guesses.

So I go on.

Less than five minutes later, I come to Linden Street. It’s off another main street in this little town, called North School Road, because—wow, it has a school. I resist the urge to drive down Linden. Instead, I drive a few more meters, stop, and turn around so I can get a look.

The street seems reasonably new and well-paved, with a half dozen homes on each side, and then the road dribbles out to a dirt path with some exposed foundations. A housing development that ran out of money?

Possible.

But which one is holding the prize, the key that will get my family free?

From my glove box I pull out a pair of nice compact Zeiss binoculars, give the street a quick glance.

Then I know.

The last house on the right looks like every other house, a one-story structure with a carport on one side, some thin shrubbery, and twisted trees that look doomed to only grow a few feet or so.

But that last house has a huge pickup truck parked in the small driveway, the kind of truck with big tires and overhead roll bars fitted with lights. It also has an extended cab.

That truck is sending a signal, although its owners probably don’t realize it.

The signal is that there are men in that house, more than one, and they have the confidence and money to strut around in such a big, visible vehicle.