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couldn’t care less if he lives or dies.”
    “But how are you going to convince him to give you the information?”
    “Us, Irene. How are we going to convince him to give us the information?” Digger smiled and winked. “That’s when we begin to break those laws.”
    Irene gaped, waiting for this to make sense.
    Digger extended his hand. “My real name is Jonathan,” he said. “Jonathan Grave. I’m in the Army, attached to a unit that specializes in hostage rescues.”
    If that was supposed to clear things up, it missed the mark by a long shot. “You’re suggesting turning this into a military operation? You look awfully young to have stars on your shoulders.”
    Jonathan smiled. He seemed to be enjoying the confusion. “Nope, no stars. No eagles, oak leaves or bars, either. Just a lot of stripes. And no, I’m not proposing to turn this into a military operation. In fact, I’m proposing to turn this into a freelance operation. I figure that between our mutual skill sets, we could pull off something impressive.”
    “What about posse comitatus?” The laws were very explicit that the United States military was forbidden to conduct combat operations on American soil.
    “You’re really having a hard time wrapping your mind around this breaking-the-law thing, aren’t you?”
    Yes, she was. “I guess I’m just not seeing the larger plan.”
    “Think of it as an HRT op without the warrants and due process. Exactly what we do all the time overseas.”
    Irene recognized HRT as the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. “Who’s we ?”
    Jonathan shrugged. “My colleagues and I. Your colleagues, too.”
    Irene’s response to that was near reflexive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Then you haven’t been paying attention. I even got to play with some of your folks down in Colombia. Ringing bells yet?”
    With that statement, Irene understood much more. While she had no official knowledge of the drug war activities in Colombia, news outlets had been buzzing about it for weeks, and she’d heard her share of rumors in the halls of the Hoover Building. If she guessed right, this Jonathan Grave fellow was a part of one of the most elite and secret military units in the world.
    “The plan,” he continued, “is as simple as it gets. We pay your friend Jennings a visit and we scare the living shit out of him. He tells us what we want to know, or we’ll make his situation extraordinarily uncomfortable.”
    Irene felt a rush of dread. “You’re talking about torture.”
    “No,” Jonathan said. “I’m talking about persuasion.”
    “How is that different from torture?”
    He shrugged with one shoulder. “Torture is what the bad guys do.”
    “A rose by a different name, then.”
    He inhaled deeply, as if to bolster lagging patience. “Look, this guy is not a soldier, okay? He’s not going to be inclined to take one for the team. He’s a coward who preys on children. The only strength he has is that which he is granted through the legal system that you seem so hesitant to rattle. Once he knows that those avenues are no longer available to him, he’ll sing long and loud. My experience with guys like him is that you never actually have to hurt them. You just have to make them think you will.”
    It all sounded so reasonable and rational when it was presented in such calm tones. All she had to do was violate every oath she’d ever sworn, and turn her back on a lifetime of principles.
    Jonathan continued with his sales pitch. “You want this to be more complicated than it is,” he said. “If your children were taken across the border to Mexico or across the sea to some East African shithole, this is exactly the mission I would be dispatched to carry out with the full authority of the United States government. They’re your daughters. It’s your call.”
    “No torture,” Irene said. Was it possible she was on the brink of agreeing to this madness?
    “No,” Jonathan snapped. “No rules