Hostage Zero

The man held up his beefy hand, fingers splayed wide. “ Cinco minutos, ” he said.

You didn’t have to speak Spanish to get “five minutes” out of that.

The man turned and left, closing a flimsy door behind him, and leaving Evan alone. Suddenly, five minutes seemed like way too much time. The room-if that’s really what you could call it-was tiny, maybe eight feet square. The walls and floor seemed to be made of the same wide wooden planks, but the walls didn’t actually go all the way to the floor, leaving a gap of six inches or so. The room didn’t have a ceiling, really, just an elevated cap that looked like it was made of grass. The walls didn’t meet there, either.

Behind him, his bed turned out to be a wooden door nailed to sawhorses. That platform was the only object in the room, except for a bucket that had been shoved into the corner on the wall opposite the door.

Evan placed the pile of clothes on the plank and sorted through them. This couldn’t be right. “Hey!” he called. “Hey mister! Senor! ”

He waited a few seconds, and when no one answered, he tried again. With still no answer, he padded barefoot to the door and pulled it open. “Hey!”

Jesus, he was in the jungle! Five feet away, two men wearing camouflaged green uniforms jumped at the sound of the door opening and whirled, leveling rifles at his chest.

Evan yelled, wrapped his arms protectively around his head, and dropped to his knees.

Someone shouted, and heavy footsteps ran up to him. Again, he was lifted by his hair, and this time he was shoved back inside. He landed on his back and skidded.

“Don’t shoot me!” Evan cried.

“You crazy boy!” It was the same man as before. “ Loco! Crazy to escape.”

Evan brought himself to his feet, again adjusting his hair. “I wasn’t escaping!” he yelled.

“You escaping!”

“No!”

“Then why run outside?”

“I needed to talk to you!” Evan said. The fear remained, but anger swelled as well. “Look at those clothes!” He pointed at the pile on the plank bed. “They’re for winter!” Indeed, the man had handed him blue jeans, a turtleneck, and a heavy wool sweater.

“Yes. You wear.”

“It’s a thousand degrees.”

“You wear,” the man repeated. He held up three fingers. “ Tres minutos.” He turned to the door, then turned back and said something.

“What?”

He mimicked knocking on the door. “No get shot.” He turned to leave.

“Wait.”

His jailer turned again, annoyance blooming on his face.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

The guard scowled. They weren’t communicating.

Evan went knock-kneed and bounced, the universal pantomime for needing to go. “Pee,” he said. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

The guard’s scowl turned to a grudging smile. He pointed to the bucket in the corner

Evan’s jaw gaped. “You’re shitting me.”

“ Si, ” he said, pointing again. “Sheet.” He closed the door as he exited, then shouted, “ Dos minutos! ”

The offices for Security Solutions occupied the third floor of the same one-hundred-year-old converted firehouse whose first two floors served as Jonathan’s residence. He resisted the pull of home as he walked to the public entrance and smiled at the security camera. There’d been some major renovations to this entryway in recent months, following some unpleasantness involving invaders who had let themselves in by hacking the security code. Now, every employee had to offer up a thumbprint and an encrypted card key to gain access, while security cameras verified each visitor’s identity before anyone could be buzzed in.

As the owner of the company, just the smile worked for Jonathan. The door hummed, and he pushed it open.

A rabbit warren of cubicles greeted him. In this front part of the office-everyone called it “the pit,” but he had no idea why-Security Solutions’ team of twenty investigators and their support staff took care of the public, legitimate side of their business, whose clients included some of the most recognized corporate names in the world.

Jonathan’s team was waiting for him in the War Room-the teak conference room in the Cave, Security Solutions’ executive suite, where the clandestine side of the business was run. Precious few in the company knew exactly what went on in the Cave, and that was fine. Even those who guessed knew to keep their mouths shut.

Boxers and Venice were seated around the table, as was the newest addition to the inner sanctum, Gail Bonneville. They each nursed a steaming cup of coffee. “Good morning, everyone,” Jonathan said.

Return greetings were more mumbled than spoken. The mood in the room was funereal, with all three of the others averting their gaze to anything but the three-foot-by-four-foot image of a sullen boy that glowed from the projection screen at the far end.