Pulling his cell phone from its pouch on his vest, Jonathan flipped open the cover and viewed the image transmitted by the spaghetti-size fiber optic camera he’d inserted between the doors. In the light cast by the single dim lightbulb inside, he had difficulty making out any real detail, but he saw what he needed. Their precious cargo hadn’t moved in the last half hour. The fourth-year music major lay naked on the basement floor, his arms, legs, and mouth bound with duct tape.

“Hang on a little longer,” Jonathan whispered. The kid had no idea that he was moments away from rescue. For all he knew, this was all he’d ever see again. Even after he was safe, there’d be no way to erase the trauma of these past four days. Whoever Thomas Hughes had been before the kidnapping would be forever changed. It would be years before he’d feel real joy again, and chances were, he’d never rediscover the trust he once felt toward others.

The speaker bud in his right ear-the one not occupied by the Patrones-crackled again. “Sit rep, please.” Apparently two minutes had passed since they’d last spoken, and Jonathan’s airborne partner, Brian Van de Meulebroeke-“Boxers”-wanted a situation report, per their standard operating procedure. They spoke on encrypted radio channels without worry of casual eavesdroppers.

“I’m preparing for breach now,” Jonathan said.

Still using night vision, he removed three GPCs-general purpose charges-from his rucksack, one for each of the door hinges on the right-hand side, and a third for the heavy-duty padlock in the middle. Constructed of C4 explosive with a tail of det cord to ensure proper activation, GPCs were as malleable as modeling clay, infinitely reliable, and effective as hell. The phrase “shock and awe” would take on a whole new meaning when the blast waves were focused on a room as small as the cellar.