Sweet Texas Time

 241.

We turn the corner. I tell Mustang to slow it down so we can scout the scene we are about to enter. I have a tingling sensation in my neck, unlike any I have felt in months. I take it as a sign. Whether a good sign or a bad omen we'll soon discover.

Google street view has already provided us with a general idea of how the Sarccino house sits among its neighboring urban rambler clones, the sole differentiation being a semi-circular drive that allows easy access to the oversized front door. We crawl closer and I see a tan 1995 Ford Explorer parked at the door with its engine at idle, the cold winter chill adding to its exhaust creating a plume of giveaway.

"Pull to the curb and stop," I instruct.

As Mustang executes the maneuver behind a boxy green Scion, I spot two middle aged and slightly overweight men with stocking caps revealing only eyes and mouths. Similar plumes emitting respiratory exhaust, they are forcibly steering a woman and a teenager at gunpoint towards the Explorer. I assume them to be Vincent Sarccino's wife and son. I also deduce that we have fortuitously arrived at the scene of a kidnapping in progress, what the police call a 207A, the alpha code signifying attempt.

I call for local support - asking for road blocks at the northern and southern intersections - ending the 911 call with the urgency of the situation and my identification. Briefly I state my intention to pursue if necessary. I terminate the call as dispatch instructs me to avoid direct confrontation, do not engage and that emergency response will be on site in less than ten minutes.

The younger Sarccino makes an aggressive arm sweep, perhaps provoked by excessive prodding from behind by the perp holding what appears to be a sawed-off side-by-side twelve gauge. The woman has already been stuffed into the back seat of the wagon and sits frozen in terror watching both the progress and attempt of the kidnapping, her hands behind her most likely bound with a plastic zip tie.

"Slowly pull up to the exit of the driveway, blocking the Explorer, and stop there, do it now," I say pulling the Glock from my chair and keeping it below the window, out of sight.

"We have to buy nine minutes, let's play a little chicken with 'em and hope like hell they don't panic."

It takes thirty seconds of the nine minutes for the perp to spot us and then tie and force the boy into the backseat alongside his mother. The two masked men sit in front, the driver's hands on the wheel at ten and two. His partner is making a phone call, no doubt asking for instructions. I call Julie with the update as we play out the tense waiting game with the running clock.

"We now have three rescue targets," I tell Mustang, "the woman, the boy and that cell phone." The Explorer remains at idle in the driveway but I can see that the boy is vigorously pleading his, their, case with the pair of armed felons. The driver sits at attention starring us down with bad intentions.

Julie calls with updated status on the police barricades, saying they'll have the streets blocked in five and will defer jurisdiction to my command.

"Don't know if we can keep them for five, they look ready to rumble, any way you can monitor cellular activity from the site, one of them is making a call, and I will wager my retirement pension that the guy on the other end has a name starting with C."

Julie says she'll try but adds that odds are against with such short notice. I grunt and tell her to stand by.

"Four minutes," Mustang updates.

"Your move gentlemen, and take your sweet Texas time."