“I have this. Just get ready to move.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“You said your guys were ready. Are they or aren’t they?”

“They are, but this isn’t a game, Janey.”

“I have this. Once the Vandenbergs are all in that back bedroom, I’ll provide a distraction, and you and your men secure that room and get them out.”

“Janey, I refuse to authorize you to do any such thing.”

“I’m not asking permission. I’ll give you the okay sign when it’s time to move. Or I might get shot in the head. If either of those happens, move.”

“Janey, I am ordering —”

I hung up before she talked me out of doing something stupid. Truth was, I had the advantage over all of them with all of their equipment. I had a dead teenaged gangbanger with an attitude and, well, not a whole lot to lose.

Angel appeared beside me again. He lay down in the brush, ducking his head as though they could see him. “There’s one guard on the window at all times. I’ll have to do something to draw his attention away.”

“I have another idea. A really good one. I just need a sharp stick and a lot of blood.”

I was so nervous, I wanted to throw up. My stomach roiled as I lay on the ground, waiting on word from Angel.

Agent Carson called back a third time. I told her they were finally letting Mrs. V go back with her family, so it was almost time and she should get her team ready.

She had reluctantly agreed to let me distract the captors so her men could secure the room. I hadn’t given her much of a choice, but despite that, no agent alive would just let some stranger waltz into her sting operation and “be the distraction.” No way. Absolutely not. There had to be more to that story than met the trained eye.

“Janey,” she said, growing somber, “these are very, very bad men.”

“I know. They’re holding a whole family hostage.”

“The Vandenbergs never stood a chance of survival. These are not the kind of men that let their hostages go.”

That got the blood pumping. “Got it. They’re super bad.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Positive.”

“What exactly are you going to do?”

“I thought I’d play it by ear.” I hung up and glanced at Angel. “Here goes nothing.”

Angel had found me something better than a stick, but if I didn’t get killed in the crossfire that was sure to come, I would probably die of tetanus or a flesh-eating virus. This couldn’t be sanitary.

I took the piece of rusted metal he’d found a few feet away and started cutting cut along my scalp line. My first try wasn’t deep enough. I needed more blood. This had to look convincing.

“Maybe you should stab me with it,” I said to Angel.

“Fuck that. I ain’t stabbing you. I ain’t cutting you. This was your idea.”

I closed my eyes and tried again. This time I thought of Joseph and Jasmine and how scared they had to be. The metal sliced through several layers, and blood gushed down my face. I rubbed it into my scalp and shook my head to disperse it, then scraped the metal along my cheek, neck, and chest, making deep – and hopefully convincing – gashes.

The phone rang again. Agent Carson was probably not liking my plan. Sadly, part of that plan was to smash my phone. I raised the metal and slammed it into the phone over and over.

“You’re one angry chick,” Angel said.

I put my hand on his arm where I’d scratched him. “I’m sorry, Angel. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He stared a moment, then laughed it off. “Please. I’m an asshole. I know that.”

“You weren’t being an asshole. You were being a thirteen-year-old boy.” I leaned in and kissed his cheek. He lowered his head, embarrassed. “Okay, tell me when he’s not looking.”

He nodded and disappeared. About fifteen seconds later, I heard the single word “Go.”

I hopped onto my feet and sprinted as fast as I could to the tree line that circled the house. Once there, I skidded under some brush and waited.

After another few seconds, I heard another “Go.”

This time, I ran in the same direction I’d just come, only I stumbled a lot, falling all the way down and having to drag myself back up. I weaved to the back door, knowing they were probably all three watching now, and slammed my palms against it.

“Is anyone home?” I yelled, my voice hoarse.

I didn’t wait for them to actually answer. I just wanted them to think I was out of my mind, trying to get help. I walked the perimeter of the house, yelling for someone, anyone, to help my husband. When I got to the front door, I pounded on it.

“They checked the room, just to make sure nothing was up,” Angel said as he followed me. He disappeared and reappeared again in the blink of an eye. “Now they’re all three up front, watching you. Their guns are drawn.”

I fell against the front door and pounded, leaving bloody palm prints all over it. “Please, I need to use your phone. Please.”

“Tell them to go now,” Angel said.

I dropped one hand to my side and gave Agent Carson the okay signal, praying she saw it, because the door opened. The man had put his gun aside and was studying me.

It was the same man who sat at Mr. V’s desk for at least two days, but I’d mussed my hair and bled all over my face. Surely he wouldn’t recognize me.

“Please,” I said, swaying as though I were about to lose consciousness. “My husband. He’s in the car.” I pointed toward the lake then held out my busted phone. “Do you have a phone? Please. He’s trapped.”

When they did nothing but watch me, I bent at the waist and vomited on their floor. The vomit was real. No way to fake that shit. The fact that one of them was holding an AK-47 on me – I’d seen it through the slit between door and jamb – proved to be all the motivation I needed to empty the contents of my stomach. Then, in a dramatic twist even I didn’t see coming, I fell to my knees and passed out in my own puke. Or, well, I pretended to. I lay as still as humanly possible as one of the men brought his gun around and pointed it at my head.

20

Life ain’t all burritos and strippers, my friend.

—TRUE FACT

Trust hadn’t exactly been my strong suit, but I was putting my life in the hands of an FBI agent I’d never met and her team. Hopefully, they would live up to their reputation of being excellent shots.

The men started to panic. They spoke in frantic Farsi, trying to decide what to do with me, arguing among themselves, giving the team precious time to save the Vandenbergs. One of the men shoved another. He wanted to put me in the shed out back. Surely I wouldn’t live long, especially in this cold. The other wanted to bring me inside and put me in a room so they could keep an eye on me. The third just wanted to shoot me in the head. They were too close. They were going back to Mr. V’s store and getting the package that evening, and risking it all by keeping me alive when they were only going to kill me anyway would be stupid.

I didn’t dare open my eyes, so Angel relayed to me their every move.

“They keep looking outside to see if anyone saw you come up,” he said. “But none of them have thought to check on the Vandenbergs yet.”