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.

Like I said, the owners don’t realize they’ve set up a signal.

But I do.

I shove the binoculars back into the glove box, resume my driving.

A few minutes later I’m parked in the shade behind a three-store strip that has a Laundromat, a dollar store, and a liquor store. I’m scribbling some notes, re-creating what I just saw on Linden Street and how best to approach it.

I know my time deadline is far and away gone, like New Year’s Eve hats and banners from several months ago.

But like that Israeli general said more than a half century ago, I’m stopping for nothing.

I realize the stacked odds against me have gotten higher and higher with each passing hour, from the time delay to being robbed of all of my cash.

But I’m still not stopping.

If in the next hour or so, I get out of here with my guy in my Wrangler, I’ll make the call and find out where to deliver him for the trade.

Oh, yes, I’ll make the drive, and I’ll make the trade.

No matter what happens, I’ll bring my own kidnap victim to the criminal who’s taken my husband and daughter, and if Tom and Denise aren’t produced alive and breathing, then I’ll blow out the man’s brains in front of said criminal.