The Cornwalls Are Gone (Amy Cornwall #1)(2)

Clothes from Denise—her practice soccer uniform—are in a pile on the floor.

My girl’s room may be messy, but she knows enough to pop her soiled clothes in the nearby hamper.

Wrong, it’s all wrong.

With a hard, deep breath, I rip the shower curtain open.

Clear.

But still oh so wrong.



And now I’m on the ground floor, revolver still in both hands, still looking, hunting, evaluating, and there’s a smell I hadn’t noted before.

A scent of fear, of sweat, of terror.

I pass by the dining room and there’s something there I missed earlier, partially hidden by the vase holding the single rose.

I go into the room, pushing back the happy memories made at this very table—of family dinners, helping Denise with her math homework, Christmas mornings and Thanksgiving afternoons, meals with my fellow officers and civvies from Fort Belvoir—all sorts of pleasant thoughts that are now gone.

There’s a sheet of paper on the table.

Next to the paper is a cell phone I don’t recognize. Mine is in my purse, and both Tom and Denise have iPhones.

This cell phone is square, with a small screen and a keypad underneath.

I step closer to the paper.

Look down.

Standard eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of white paper, with the words centered, the black letters looking like they came off an inkjet printer.

Typical and usual, except the words underneath are neither typical nor usual.

WE HAVE YOUR HUSBAND AND DAUGHTER. NO FBI, STATE POLICE, CID, MILITARY POLICE. YOU AND YOU ALONE.

FOLLOW OUR INSTRUCTIONS TO THE LETTER AND COMPLETE YOUR TASK IN 48 HOURS, OR THEY BOTH DIE.



I read and re-read the message, clear and to the point, and I’m in the middle of reading it for the third time when the strange phone rings, jolting me so hard that I nearly drop my weapon.





CHAPTER 2



I KEEP the revolver in my right hand and pick up the unfamiliar phone with my left, push the Answer button, and say, “Cornwall.”

There’s a male voice on the other end. No hint of static, or crackling, or anything else. This is a burner phone, but it’s a high-end burner phone.

“We have your husband and your daughter,” he starts, in a low but straightforward voice with just a hint of an accent that I can’t place. “They are perfectly fine for now. Within the next forty-eight hours, you are to proceed to Three Rivers, Texas, to a secure location under the control of your intelligence services and free a man very important to us. Forty-eight hours. Once this man is free, we will perform the exchange for the safe return of your husband and daughter.”

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.”