Terms of Surrender
Kylie Brant

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Copyright

Kylie Brant is the award-winning author of more than twenty novels. When she’s not dreaming up stories of romance and suspense, she works as an elementary teacher for learning-disabled students.

Kylie invites readers to check out her website at www. kyliebrant.com. You can contact her by writing to PO Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, USA, or e-mailing her at kyliebrant@hotmail.com.

For Kasen James, my precious second grandson, whose smiles light up my heart.

Acknowledgements

A special thanks to Mark Pfeiffer and Jeff McQueen, weapons experts at Weapons_Info loop, for the wealth of knowledge you share every day and for that final clue that tied my plot together. You guys are amazing! And a big thank-you to my experts on hostage negotiation and SWAT: Jay Chase and Jerry MacCauley, director of Personal Protection Concepts, for your patience answering questions and helping me understand the basics; Sgt Michael Fanning (ret), NYPD Hostage Negotiation Team, for walking through my plot with me to get the details right; and Kyle Hiller, Captain, Special Response Team, for your generosity of time, detailed explanations and invaluable assistance. You’re my heroes, every one of you!

Chapter One

Dace Recker donned the Tac-Vest with its heavy ceramic plates and fastened it. Grabbing his bag of gear out of the car’s trunk, he slammed the lid and jogged toward the police tape establishing the outer perimeter around the bank. Ducking beneath it, he flashed his shield at the cop stationed nearest him and began to shoulder his way through the sea of law enforcement officers toward the Negotiations Operation Center, a converted ambulance, parked nearby.

“Dace!” Turning, he recognized Jack Langley from Alpha Squad, the SWAT unit his Hostage Negotiation Team was assigned to. Jack’s limp was noticeable in his hurry. The injury he’d sustained in the explosion at the Metrodome last month still had him on the disabled list. At that moment, however, HNT leader, Bradley Lewis, stepped out of the NOC mobile unit and spotted Dace, waving him over. Jack caught up with him as he headed toward Lewis and said urgently, “Your new partner’s here.”

“Yeah?” Dace craned his neck, but could see no one standing near the commander. “Who is it? Have you met him yet?”

“Her. And she’s—”

“Recker, where the hell is your team responding from, Siberia?”

Lewis’s familiar impatient tone succeeded in snapping Dace’s attention from Langley.

“What’s the situation?”

“Bank branch with twelve regular employees, ten of them confirmed inside. Undetermined number of customers, but witnesses suggest at least eight. Someone managed to press the crisis button, which alerted police at 9:21 a.m. Subject went barricade shortly after.”

Dace checked his watch. 10:12.

“Shots fired upon entry, and again fifteen minutes later,” Lewis continued. “No visual yet. The blinds were pulled shortly after the first shots were fired.”

“Injuries?”

“Nothing confirmed. The situation’s locked down with a full perimeter established. Your new partner’s inside the mobile unit, trying to establish contact. You’ll be primary, but she’s got plenty of experience, too. The phone lines have been disconnected. The gunman did accept the throw phone, but hasn’t answered it yet.”

Dace nodded as Lewis turned and strode toward the command center, a sleek black specially equipped RV. The man would serve as their command center liaison, exchanging information with the SWAT commander. As Dace reached for the door to the NOC unit, his progress was halted by Jack’s hand on his arm.

“Like I was saying…”

“A woman partner. Yeah, I heard you. Eat your heart out, buddy.” Dace shot a grin at his friend. “When you get back on duty, all you have to look forward to is Bazuk.” The eerily silent tobacco-chewing Cajun was Jack’s personal nemesis, primarily, Dace figured, because both men had more than their share of ego.

But Langley didn’t take the bait. “Yeah, yeah, but there’s something you should know. I saw her when I was in human resources filling out insurance stuff.”

“Who, the new partner?”

“Yeah, and it’s—”

“Langley!”

Dace hid a grin at the sound of SWAT commander Harv Mendel’s familiar bellow from the command center parked a hundred yards away. As Langley turned in resignation, Dace opened the back door of the NOC unit and ducked inside. Mendel was going to want to know what the man was doing on-site when he hadn’t yet gotten a medical release to return to duty. But Dace knew his friend well enough to figure the answer. With nothing to do but rehab exercises, Langley was going slowly crazy. A civilian might spend his medical leave at the beach. Jack spent his listening to the scanner.

The unit was nearly empty save for a slender blond woman, seated at the table. Most of the team must not have arrived yet. “Dace Recker,” he said by way of introduction. “Have you made contact yet?”

Her back was to him, but he heard her say, “Hello. Whom am I speaking to?”

His heart stuttered in his chest. The voice was familiar. Too familiar. It still haunted his dreams. Prowled his subconscious. Summoned memories he’d done his damnedest to forget for the past year and a half.

Disbelieving, he raked her figure with his gaze, desperately seeking a sign that he was wrong. This woman was slimmer, wasn’t she? Her hair a lighter shade than he remembered.

But a moment later she swung around to face him and recognition struck him square in the chest. No matter how impossible it seemed, how cruel, it was Jolie Conrad. The only woman he’d ever allowed close enough to get a grip on his heart.

The same woman who’d ripped that organ out of his chest when she’d walked out of his life eighteen months ago, after their world had shattered around them.

Her expression mirrored his shock. But she recovered first, holding out the cell. “Out of seven calls made, this is the first answered. Woman’s voice. She’s handing it over to the gunman.”

He took the phone she extended as if it were a lifeline. Speaking with the psycho inside the bank who was holding at least eighteen hostages was infinitely preferable to dealing with the emotional punch of seeing Jolie again.

Not just seeing her. Being partnered with her.

God help him.

“This is Dace Recker, with the Metro City Police Department.” It took more effort than it should have to keep his focus on the hostage taker at the other end of the line. “Am I speaking to the person in charge?”

“You are. And I have to say, Recker, that you and your people are screwing up my day.”

The voice was male. Authoritative. Native English speaker. No trace of regional accents. Dace’s assessments were instinctive, made in quick succession.

He glanced at his partner. Jolie. His gut tightened. She’d donned earphones and was listening intently to the conversation. “I’m here to give you a hand with that…” Deliberately he let his voice trail off. “Help me out, here. What’s your name?”

“Names aren’t important.”

He kept his voice easy. “Well, they sort of are. I have to call you something, don’t I?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Just call me John.”

“All right, John, talk to me. Are you all right?”

The question seemed to catch the other man off guard. “I’m fine.”

“That’s good. I’m very glad to hear that. I want to keep it that way, okay, John? How about the rest of the folks in there? Are there any injuries?”

“You don’t seem to understand how things are going to work, so let me explain. I want a black SUV with tinted windows delivered to the back doors. Pull your perimeter back another six hundred yards. Too many cops around here. I’m feeling a little claustrophobic.”

“I’ll work on it. No one’s coming in there, John, but we’re not going anywhere either. Now this is a two-way effort. You want something, you have to give something in return. I really need the status on the people inside with you. How many are there? Are there any in need of medical assistance?”

“There’s one past need of medical assistance,” came the chilling reply. “And there will be more if you don’t follow my directions exactly.” The line abruptly disconnected.

Releasing a breath, he set the phone down. Only then did he transfer his attention to Lewis, who had entered the unit and slipped on headphones during the conversation. “Did you get that?”

Lewis took off his headphones and headed for the door. “I’ll run the delivery-exchange angle by command center. If he reestablishes contact before I return, you know the drill.”

Dace did know it. Stall him. Establish a rapport by using active listening skills. Once command center okayed it, the team would work an exchange while getting concessions for the people inside. Releasing the injured. Sending in food. But this was the trickiest part of negotiation. He didn’t know the gunman well enough yet to predict how he was going to react when Dace followed the usual procedures.

He slanted a glance to the woman at his side, who even now was looking at him, her blue eyes guarded. And he knew this case had been complicated beyond all measure the moment he’d heard her voice and come face-to-face with the past that still plagued him.

The open back door framed Dr. Ryder, their psychological profiler, who’d stopped to talk to Lewis for a moment. With an effort at keeping their privacy, Jolie spoke in a whisper. “I’m sorry about this.”

His loins tightened, as if in conditioned response to that familiar smoky tone. He gave her a grim smile and lowered his voice, too. “For what? Sucker punching me with this partnership? For not returning my phone calls? Or for taking off without a word a year and a half ago and leaving me to wonder what the hell had happened to you?” He could hear the bitterness lacing his words, but was helpless to temper it. “Take your pick, Jolie. What are you apologizing for? For walking out of my life? Or for walking back into it?”

Jolie’s palms were damp, but she refused to show weakness in front of this man by wiping them on her pants. Meeting Dace’s condemning green gaze took a strength of will that sapped her system. She’d been as dismayed as he when she’d looked up to see him in the doorway. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. There were only two SWAT/HNT squads in Metro City. And if she’d learned nothing else in her life, it was that fate was filled with the cruelest of ironies.

“When I was placed back on HNT, I never dreamed I’d be partnered with you. I’d heard you quit the squad after…” Her voice faltered as his gaze sharpened. She didn’t want him to think she’d been checking up on him. But occasionally touching base with old friends on the force had invariably included department gossip.

“After you left? Yeah, I quit the squad for a while. Rejoined last January.” He studied her a moment, an impassive expression on his face. “When did you come back? And why?”

His words were sharp as a blade. He was equally adept at wielding them like a weapon, she recalled. Slicing through subterfuge and carving at defenses until emotion, raw and unvarnished, leaked out. Until she said things she wished she could retract. Did things she still regretted.

“A month ago.” Answering the second half of his question would take more time than they had. And far more openness on her part than she’d ever granted before. Since he didn’t even know her mother existed, it’d be a little difficult to explain returning to Metro City to care for her.

He gave her a humorless smile. “A month. Great.” He turned away abruptly to address the other team members who had gathered outside. And she was left with the crushing certainty that she’d added another royal screwup to the mess her life had always been. It was useless to wonder how to fix it. If she’d had any success in that area, she wouldn’t be here.

So she did the one thing she could do. Focused on the only part of her life that was black-and-white. The only part she’d ever shown an ounce of aptitude for.

She turned her focus to the SWAT incident report and began filling in the necessary information. Because every second she concentrated on the job was another second she didn’t have to think about the man beside her. Didn’t have to face the pain she’d caused him. The pain they’d caused each other.

Minutes later the newcomers entered the NOC, each taking a place around the table, filling the cramped quarters.

Dace made introductions. “Dr. Phil Ryder, our profiler.” A stocky man with a shiny balding pate gave her a nod. “Lance Sharper will be recorder and Herb Johnson tactical liaison.” He indicated each of the individuals in turn and inclined his head toward Jolie. “Jolie Conrad, new to the squad but not to HNT.”

“Any problems with the throw phone?” Johnson wanted to know.

“For once we actually had enough cord, believe it or not,” Dace replied. It was never a matter of if things went wrong on a SWAT response, it was a matter of when. There were invariably screwups, like equipment that didn’t work or throw phones that didn’t have long enough cords to reach the barricaded subject.

While Dace brought the other members up-to-date, Jolie got up to maneuver around the table and jot notes on the white marker board that lined the walls of the unit. It would serve as their situation board, and as circumstances unfolded they would make copious notes of every communication with the hostage taker, as well as impressions formed during the conversations. It was crucial that every piece of information be documented to aid in drawing conclusions. The profiler would weigh the HT’s words carefully before rendering an impression about how best to approach the subject.

The door opened and Lewis ducked his head to enter, a roll of papers under his arm. Flicking his gaze over the assembled group, he grunted. “Good. You’re all here.”

The command center liaison sat in the empty chair and unrolled the plans on the table. The rest of the team members crowded around.

“No basement,” Jolie observed. “One level simplifies things.”

“If the squad has to infiltrate, yeah.” Dace’s voice was impersonal, as if their earlier exchange had never occurred. Jolie knew she could count on him to compartmentalize their past and focus on the task at hand. He could be as single-minded on the job as she.

“But it’s also easier for the hostage taker to control the hostages,” Dr. Ryder pointed out. “Fewer places for them to scatter.”

They examined the blueprints as a voice crackled in Johnson’s headset. The whipcord-thin black man listened for a moment before stating, “Intel reports no live subjects in sight at this time. The body looks like a security guard. The rest of the lobby floor is littered with clothes and shoes.”

“How much?” Jolie put in, her mind racing.

“Piles of them.”

“He made them undress,” she said and saw Dace nod. “He’s been planning this for a while. Figured out the best way to control a group of people was to strip them, figuratively and literally, of all outer trappings of position.”

“And keep them preoccupied with more basic issues than escape,” Ryder put in.

If that were the strategy, it would be crudely effective. But, more important, it gave them critical details about the gunman they were dealing with. His choice of words, during the short time they’d had him on the phone, had depicted a man of some education. Unless he’d had a sexual motive for stripping his hostages—which Jolie doubted—they now knew the gunman had an underlying understanding of basic human nature and how to manipulate it.

Which meant he might be smart enough to see through attempts to manipulate him, as well.

Sharper traced the blueprint with a blunt-edged finger. “He’ll keep them all together. Only places available would be a restroom—tight fit for all those people—these two offices or the vault.” He reached up to wipe his broad forehead. The air-conditioning in the NOC unit was notoriously unreliable.

Jolie studied the diagram more closely. The vault would be the obvious choice, since it would allow the greatest security, and give the HT a way to lock the hostages inside. But was there room? It was a sizable space, but she had to assume the money and bonds that a bank kept on hand would take up a great deal of that room.

“Any hope for witness identification on the gunman?”

Lewis shook his head in response to Dace’s question. “Not yet. The good news is that the security video streams to an outside company, so we should be able to clearly see all the customers and employees walking into the bank. Mendel is waiting for the feed now. He’s got it figured as a robbery gone bad.”

It was the most obvious motivation, but Jolie had learned never to assume anything in these situations. It could just as easily be a disgruntled former employee. Or someone who’d been turned down for a loan, or one with any number of grudges against someone inside.

Dr. Ryder turned to study the notes Jolie had jotted down. Dace got up to attach the blueprints to the situation board with magnets. The team debated the best approach to take in the next conversation.

Several minutes later, they reached consensus. “Then we’re agreed,” Lewis said, sending a look around the table. “We play to the HT’s need for control while we work the exchange angle.”

“You might want to see if he responds differently to Jolie,” Dr. Ryder suggested. “It’s early enough in the process that a rapport hasn’t been established yet. And if he’s as driven by control as we think, he may believe a female is easier to manage.”

Dace shrugged. “Try him again. See what he’ll give up.”

Jolie nodded, already pressing Redial. Concessions were a staple of hostage negotiation. Nothing was ever given to a suspect without law enforcement getting something in return. In one situation she’d worked, the gunman had exchanged two hostages for a carton of cigarettes.

The ringing stopped as the call connected. “John? This is Jolie Conrad, with the Metro PD. We’ve passed your requests on. But we need you to do something for us—”

“What happened to Recker?”

She slid a gaze to Dace, listening at her side. “He’s here, John. Do you want to speak to him?”

Indifference sounded in the man’s voice. “It doesn’t matter. How long before I get that SUV?”

“Like I said, the arrangements are in the works. But you have to give us something, too. Life is a series of compromises, right?” She could almost feel the green intensity of Dace’s eyes boring into her. Too late, she recalled how often she’d heard him utter that particular phrase. “If there are injured people in there, we want to get them out. Get medical assistance for them. You’re not going to miss them. Less people inside to keep track of.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then, “You haven’t moved the perimeter back or provided the vehicle I requested. I haven’t gotten a thing from you yet, so where’s the compromise? Don’t call back until you’re ready to deal.”

The call abruptly disconnected again. The team members took off their headphones and Sharper got up to write notes on the situation board. There was a tap at the back door before it was pulled open. Lewis ducked out to talk to the newcomer. Johnson turned away to summarize the latest conversation to intel over his ear mike radio. A few moments later, Lewis rejoined them. “We’ve got DMV verification for all the vehicles in the parking lot, and positive ID on the owners. One was reported stolen two days ago from a parking garage on Sixty-first and Locust, a Toyota Camry. That’s probably our guy’s ride. We’ve got CSU going over it now.”

“Any ID on the hostage down?” Dace asked.

“Walter Hemsworth, security guard for the bank. He’s still clothed, so he probably tried to stop the gunman shortly after he entered the bank.” Lewis’s voice was dispassionate.

Jolie shifted to a more comfortable position and prepared to wait. At the beginning of any armed situation, the hostage taker was running on adrenaline, certain of his power. The longer the ordeal drew out, the more frayed his nerves became. The more hopeless his situation appeared. But it could take hours, or days, for the situation to reach that point.

Something jogged her memory and she looked at Dace. “The HT said ‘perimeter.’ And again earlier, when he was talking to you. Not move your people back, but ‘move the perimeter.’”

“You think law enforcement? Military?”

“Possibly.” Grabbing the leather clipboard on the table in front of her with the attached SWAT incident report, she flipped to the legal pad beneath and drew a grid, jotting labels at the top of each column. Writing quickly, she began noting details they’d verified, possibilities and unknowns. There was depressingly little to note, but she wrote down impressions of the gunman from their conversations and the make and model of the stolen Toyota in the first column, and then the words perimeter—LEO? Military?—in the second. She’d give Sharper the list to add to the situation board when he was finished with his own notes.

Dace looked on, a thread of amusement sounding in his tone, pitched low enough to reach only her ears. “You and your notes. I don’t know how many charts and lists of yours I ran across when I was packing.”

Her hand stilled. She kept her attention trained on the legal pad, not trusting herself to look at him. “You moved out of the house?”

“Not much use hanging on to a two-bedroom house for one person.” Any trace of humor was absent from his quiet answer. It was as detached as if he were talking to a stranger. Which was exactly what they had become to each other, after…She swallowed. After.

His words had been innocuous enough. They shouldn’t have had the power to carve a deep furrow of pain through her. Questions rose to her lips, questions that she knew she no longer had a right to ask. And as desperately as she’d like the answers, she couldn’t be certain she could deal with that conversation. Especially not here.

She shifted back to the situation at hand. “Who was that on Johnson’s radio earlier? Reporting on the visual?”

“Hmm?” He’d withdrawn a pen for the whiteboard and was completing the portions of the SWAT form she hadn’t finished. “Oh. Couldn’t hear much, but it sounded like Cold Shot. Ava Carter. Lucky for us. She’s the best.”

A sniper then. These operatives usually had the best vantage points from which to gather intelligence for the incident. But she was surprised that the shooter was female. SWAT was still a male-dominated field, and few women possessed the deadly accuracy with weaponry and the desire to apply that skill to high-stress situations like this.

Herb Johnson rejoined the table. “We’ve got a positive count on the number inside. The subject is probably the one man who had his face turned away from the camera going in. By the time he got inside, he had a mask pulled down. Besides the ten employees, we have thirteen customers—four men, eight women and a kid. Looks like a boy. Maybe two, two and a half.”

The news blindsided Jolie with a force that sent her reeling. Nausea rose, and for one dizzying moment she felt as if she was going to be sick. Her defenses were usually strong enough to protect her against the flood of memory, this paralyzing hurt that was brutal enough to melt her entire system into one oozing pit of pain.

But then there’d be a chance resemblance, a careless word, and the floodgates would open, dragging her back to a past that could still throb like a wound.

“Outside. Now.” Dace murmured the order into her ear then got up to head for the doors. Blindly she followed, still stunned.

Once outside he grabbed her arm, pulled her around the corner of the unit so they’d have a semblance of privacy. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t.”

Helplessly, her gaze met his, lingered.

“We don’t know this boy,” Dace continued. “We’ll do our best for him, and for every other person in that bank. And if you aren’t up for that, tell me now.”

Another would think his tone cold. Unfeeling. Jolie knew Dace was neither. He was, however, a consummate professional. And so was she. The whiplash of his words helped her remember that.

“I’m okay.” But her words sounded weak, even to her own ears. She recognized Dace’s logic. Emotion didn’t belong in a situation like this. The child was a factor in this case, but the boy was a stranger. An innocent carried into the bank, probably with his mother.

He wasn’t Sammy. He wasn’t their son.

They’d buried Sammy nearly eighteen months ago.

Chapter Two

Memories flooded Jolie’s mind, spilling forth in a mental torrent. The look on Dace’s face when the nurse had placed his squalling son in his arms for the first time. Sammy’s sweet baby smell after his bath. The staggering joy at seeing his first toothless smile. The all-encompassing anguish of watching his tiny casket lowered into the earth.

Those memories could nearly suffocate her, weight her down under a heavy blanket of sorrow that made a mockery of hope. Long practice had her slamming the door on those images, shoving them aside to focus on the here. The now.

Dace was right. Neither of them knew the child in the bank. But there was no denying the boy’s presence there upped the ante dramatically.

She nodded jerkily, started back for the doors.

“Jolie.”

Dace’s voice, his expression when she flicked a glance at him, was soft. Her heart stumbled in her chest. She couldn’t recall the last time he’d looked at her that way. But it had been well before she’d left him and this city behind. It had been before she’d gone into the nursery one morning to find their son still and cold.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” She heard her own oft-repeated phrase on her lips, saw it have the predictable effect on the man beside her. His expression closed and although he didn’t move, a part of him shifted away.

And that, too, was familiar.

When they reentered the NOC unit, strategy was being discussed for the next phone call. And when Jolie established contact, she had herself firmly under control again.

“John. How are things going in there? I’m here to help you in any way I can.”

“Where’s the SUV I requested? How long am I going to have to wait for it?”

There was a new edge to the man’s tone. She glanced at Ryder, saw that he’d caught it. The psychologist would help monitor the man’s mood to better predict his actions. But before they could do that with any certainty, they needed to learn more about him.

“These things take time,” she said easily. “I’m still working on it, though.”

“Then we have nothing else to discuss.”

From the corner of her eye she saw Dace gesturing but didn’t need the reminder to keep the man talking. “Sure we do. Something made you walk into California National Bank this morning. Hard to believe it was just to get the chance to speak to me. You wanted something. Tell me about that.”

“That’s easy,” came the disembodied answer. “This is where they keep the money.”

She heard voices coming from Johnson’s headset, and the man moved away from the table so the gunman wouldn’t overhear. “So that’s what this is about? The money? Why’d you choose this bank?”

“It was here. I was here. Seemed like fate. Do you believe in fate, Jolie?”

“I believe in personal responsibility. In doing the right thing. It’s not too late for you to do the right thing, John. Things haven’t gone so wrong yet that you can’t walk away from this. I want to help you with that.” She didn’t mention the dead security guard. If they were to convince the gunman to surrender, they had to make him believe he had a chance if he did things their way. “Why don’t you come out before things get out of hand?”

There was a soft laugh on the other side of the line. “You’re good. I can see why Recker let you take over. But unfortunately for you, you’re not dealing with an idiot. Thanks for the offer, but I like my chances better if we follow my plan.”

She glanced at Dace, who was reading a note Johnson had written and given to him. “What plan is that?”

“You get the perimeter pulled back. Bring the car up to the back doors. I leave quietly with the cash and, of course, a couple hostages to ensure my safety. We all live happily ever after.”

As fairy tales went, his was particularly far-fetched. There was no way his demands would be met. Before he would be allowed to leave the vicinity, an assault-and-rescue operation would be staged. Such an operation drastically increased the odds of injury to those inside. But she was charged with the task of making sure it never came to that.

“We’re working on that for you, John. We want a happy ending as much as you do. But these things take time. You know what bureaucracy is like, right? And while we’re waiting, you’ve got things to take care of, too. The people inside are going to need to use the restroom soon. Maybe food. Water. We can assist you with that.”

“I don’t give a damn what they need.” The earlier control the gunman had displayed was definitely thinning. “They aren’t my concern.”

“Couple dozen people who can’t use the bathroom can be cause for anyone’s concern,” she returned, injecting a note of amusement into her voice that she was far from feeling. “Especially if they’re all being kept in a small area. Where are they, in the vault? Pretty soon the money’s not going to smell so good.”

There was silence on the other end, leaving Jolie with no idea what the other man was thinking. “If there’s anyone in there who’s injured, John, now’s the time to send them out. Wounded people are just another headache for you.”

Dace touched her arm, handed her the note to read.

“On the contrary, Jolie. Wounded people will soon become your headache. Because if my demands aren’t met by the next time we talk, I’m going to start shooting people in here.”

That got her attention. “You don’t want to do that, John.” Her tone was firm. “I can help you out of this thing. I swear it. But if you harm anyone else in there, your options narrow drastically. You’re smart enough to realize that. I know you are.”

A click was her only answer.

Slowly, she lowered the phone while Dace crumpled the note in his hand. “So there’s a visual of him in the lobby?” That much, at least, she’d been able to read before the HT had reclaimed her focus.

He nodded. “He’s still wearing the mask, which is good news.”

Maintaining his disguise meant he still thought there was a way out of this, so he was taking pains not to be identified. It was when his hopes of walking away alive were dashed that they had reason to worry.

But there was something in the way Dace was regarding her that had trepidation stirring in her belly. “What else?” Whatever it was, there was no doubt he’d give it to her straight. Dace had always been honest to a fault.

I don’t know if I love you. How could I? It’s too soon, for either of us. But I know I’ll love this baby, if you’ll go through with the pregnancy. I’ll do right by it. By both of you. Give me a chance, Jolie. Give us a chance.

His earnest honesty had disarmed defenses that she’d once thought stronger. Had undermined common sense and shredded reason. In retrospect she still couldn’t understand how he’d circumvented a lifetime of caution and compelled her to reach for something she’d never before dared hope for.

“What else?” she repeated, in an effort to shake those memories from her head.

“He had the boy on his shoulders. One hand around both the child’s wrists, to pull him down to drape over his head.”

A chill broke out over Jolie’s arms. She rubbed them absently, muttering, “Smart bastard.” And totally cold, totally unfeeling, to use a child like that. In situations like this, if snipers were used to neutralize a gunman, they went for a head shot to produce instant incapacitation. There was no doubt the HT knew that. He’d positioned the child to protect his brain stem.

“Sounding more and more like someone well versed in law enforcement tactics,” Dace noted grimly.

“Or someone who’s done his homework,” Dr. Ryder put in. “He’s covered every base.”

Skepticism was written on Sharper’s square face. “Hard to believe an LEO would think he could get away with bank robbery.”

“But he has been getting away with it,” Lewis said grimly. “Twelve banks have been hit in a tristate area in the past three months. All have been smaller branches like this one. He’s in and out in under ten minutes. Rough estimates have the take so far at over thirty million.”

Jolie whistled under her breath. Smaller banks would have less cash on hand than their larger counterparts, but they’d also be easier to case. Fewer employees. Lower risk for complications.

Then the full ramification of Lewis’s words struck her. Bank robbery was a federal offense, and if this was one of a series, there was an ongoing investigation. In an undertone, she said to Dace, “How long do you guess we have before the feds step in?”

“I’m sort of surprised they haven’t shown up yet.”

His voice, his expression, was sardonic. He’d never been the Bureau’s biggest fan.

“Have there been any victims in the prior robberies?”

“Three.” Lewis worked a knot out of his shoulder. “So this guy isn’t afraid to leave bodies behind.”

Which was very bad news for them. And even worse for the hostages inside.

The CCL ducked out of the NOC unit to head over to the command center. While he was gone the team added details on the situation board. Using the floor plans of the bank, Johnson showed Sharper the positions of the SWAT personnel. All the known details were drawn in, down to the location of the throw phone. They used sticky notes to add unknowns, like the position of the hostages.

Jolie handed over her list and Sharper started a similar grid on the board.

Lewis returned as they were finishing. Something in his expression alerted Jolie. “We’re arranging to bring in a station wagon to park out front. You know what to do.”

Dace and Jolie exchanged a glance. “What’s the rush?” he asked.

The CCL sat down heavily. “Don’t worry. Mendel is committed to the negotiation process. But the HT has issued two verbal threats and he’s placing a child in danger. We have to be ready to act fast.”

Usually a vehicle was provided only when a tactical resolution was being planned. It caused the HT to leave his surroundings and enter the SWAT team’s controlled environment.

And under any other circumstances, Jolie would be objecting vehemently about rushing the process. But the boy inside being used as a human shield changed things. She still hoped for a peaceful resolution. But she wasn’t going to quibble about being prepared for the alternative.

Of course the HT wasn’t going to be allowed to dictate the terms. There was no way the SUV he’d requested would be brought in. The vehicles were too hard to see into. Had too much interior space. Most likely the station wagon was an older model, and it would be totally messed with. Although the gas tank would show full, it would have very little fuel. The radio would be on full blast, along with the heater, to serve as distractions in case the gunman ever made it to the car.

The likelihood of him getting that far was slim, but every contingency would be planned for.

Next time they established contact with the gunman, they’d work a trade. And since it didn’t seem as though there were any injured inside needing medical assistance, she knew exactly what her priority would be.

“Let’s see if he’ll exchange the boy.”

After a brief hesitation, Dace said quietly, “Of course. But you know he won’t, Jolie. Are you prepared for that?”

She was. Of course she was. The man had found a crudely effective way of ensuring his own survival. It didn’t matter how good the snipers were, there was no way a “weapons loose” command was going to be given with a child blocking a clear head shot. And that was the only guaranteed way to make sure the HT didn’t fire a recoil shot before dropping.

“Chances are he’s carrying a cell. Any number of the hostages probably have them, too. But he didn’t insist I direct further communications to a cell phone, which he could use out of sight, away from the skylights.”

Dace nodded. “He wants us to know what the stakes are. Wants us to see the risk of injury to the boy. This guy has anticipated worst-case scenarios. We already know he’s familiarized himself with LEO procedure. He may be aware that we have the technology to disable the cells once we arrive on the scene.”

Jolie settled back on her chair, determination and dread mingling. Simultaneous realizations occurred. There were going to be far more dangerous complications to this situation than the relationship between her and Dace.

And however it ended, it wasn’t going to be easy.

“You’ve got your vehicle, John.” Dace was still wondering why the HT had asked for him. Jolie had handled the process of lowering the gunman’s expectations from an SUV and talking him through law enforcement’s approach with the vehicle. It had turned into a long, drawn-out procedure. “Keys are in it.”

“Is this your doing, Recker? Pretty far cry from the SUV I asked for, isn’t it?”

“We’re doing the best we can for you here, John. We wanted something with a police radio in it so we could still communicate with you.”

There was a short, harsh laugh. “You probably got the crate right off the police impound lot. Turn it on and leave it running for a few minutes. I want proof it’s in working order. And you still haven’t pulled the perimeter back. Looks like more cops out there than ever.”

“One step at a time. We gave you something you want. Now it’s time for you to reciprocate.”

“I’m not in a giving mood, Recker.” Over four hours had passed since the alarm inside had been pressed. Their intelligence officers had kept track of the movement inside the bank, which had been minimal. Aside from the guard’s body, only the HT and the boy had been seen, and then only when the HT had answered the phone. The other hostages had not been sighted.

Jolie’s conversations with John, however, had also served as a diversion. Tactical had taken the opportunity to affix a listening device to a window at the corner of the building. Now they could hear what was going on inside. At the moment, however, there seemed little to report.

The crowd outside had grown. As soon as the media had gotten wind of what was going down at California National, journalists and TV anchors had descended on the vicinity like a swarm of locusts. The extra LEO personnel had been necessary for crowd control. An information center had been set up, since it was far easier to release controlled information to the media than to risk them trying to sneak closer for an exclusive. No doubt among the ongoing live reporting the talking heads were interspersing commentary from their versions of “experts” of various occupations, giving self-important assessments of the gunman. The hostages. And suggesting endless scenarios for a fascinated public.

Dace wondered if “John” had access to a television inside. Some hostage takers reveled in the notoriety, their one brush with fame. But he didn’t think the gunman inside was motivated by anything other than what he’d first revealed: money.

“You have to be thirsty. Hungry. We can deliver food. Whatever you want. Easier to think on a full stomach, I always find.”

No answer. But the other man was still there. He could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. Keeping his voice easy, Dace continued. “What’s your favorite? Ham sandwiches? Pizza? We can get enough for you to feed everyone inside. But we need to talk about the boy, John. Tyler Mills. He’s only twenty-two months old. Kid that age needs diapers. Regular meals. Naps. He has to be getting cranky. Now’s the time to send him out. Believe me, you don’t want to be dealing with a two-year-old who’s short on sleep.”

“The kid stays.” John’s voice, when he finally spoke, was flat. Emotionless. “But you can send in the food. Diapers. And something for him to drink.”

“Good idea. I’ll get on that right away. But I want you to think more about the boy. Tyler. You don’t need him. How about an exchange, the boy for the vehicle.”

“Like I said, I’m keeping the kid.” There was a hesitation. “But I’m a fair man. I’ll give you two different hostages. One now, and another when the food arrives.”

Dace saw Jolie gesturing in vehement disapproval, but he answered, “Fair enough. But it’d be best to send the boy out, John. All those people inside, you don’t need him.”

There was an eerie laugh. “I do need him. He’s my goodluck charm. Keeps your snipers from getting trigger-happy, doesn’t he?”

“We all want a peaceful ending to this. We’re not looking for anyone to get hurt. You need to start thinking about how we can get everyone home safe. You included. That’s what’s important here.”

“Now there’s where you’re wrong, Recker.” There was chilly amusement in the other man’s voice. “What’s important is me walking out of here with the cash. The rest is your agenda, not mine.”

“Hey, we’re on the same page, John.” Dace didn’t let a hint of frustration tinge his words. “I don’t want anything happening to you. We’re ready to do what it takes so everyone gets what they want.”

A click was his only answer. Dace set the phone down, raising his brows at the group. Dr. Ryder said, looking thoughtful, “I think we were dead-on with our first impression of this guy. Likes to be in control. May even be used to a position of authority. He uses a totally different tone with you, Dace, than he does with Jolie. I still think he believes she’s a soft touch because she’s a woman.” He glanced at Jolie. “No offense. But when things don’t go the way he wants, he demands to talk to the male. It’s a man he expects will be making the decisions. You also get the blame when he doesn’t like how things work out.”

It was very possible. But an entirely different thought had been forming in Dace’s mind during the course of the last conversation. He leaned over to look at the notes Jolie had been making. He was struck at once by the similarity of their thinking. When it came to their work, at least, he and Jolie disagreed on very little. It had been their private life that had ended with neither able to communicate with the other.

Which was ironic as hell, given their background as trained negotiators. Why did it seem so much simpler for him to talk to a sociopath like the one locked inside that bank than to the woman he’d lived with? Had a child with?

He had a mental flash of the two of them standing at the edge of Sammy’s grave. Such a small hole for an equally tiny casket. Jolie had been standing beside him, but they hadn’t been touching. It had been as if each of them had a force field surrounding them, keeping everyone else at a distance. Family. Friends. Each other. It had been all he could do to cope with the pain gnawing a hole through his chest without howling his rage, his desolation to the world. He’d sleepwalked through the entire process. Planning the service. The funeral. Greeting the mourners. Responding to the flowers and donations that had been sent. It hadn’t been until a week afterward that the numbness had worn off, leaving only the bone-crushing grief behind.

He hadn’t reached for Jolie then either.

“Okay, I’m going out on a limb here.” Jolie interrupted his thoughts. “But his mention of the snipers got me thinking. We know he did his homework on the potential police response. But even given his suspicion that snipers are waiting, he walks freely across the open lobby to answer the phone each time. Yeah, he’s using the child for protection. But he’s still exposing himself to a body-mass shot that could be a back-up target as long as his head is unexposed.”

The same thing had occurred to Dace during the last conversation. “He’s wearing Kevlar. Or hell, maybe he’s even got himself a Tac-Vest. Feels confident. Sure, it leaves his legs exposed, but the worst that could happen is getting his knee blown away. Even then, there’s plenty of time to kill the boy.”

He looked at Johnson. “The security video…what was the suspected gunman wearing?”

“Jeans, sneakers, long baggy UCLA sweatshirt and a matching cap pulled down low,” came the response. “Wearing a backpack. Must have had the gun concealed inside it.”

“Smart prick,” Lewis muttered. “Went in prepared. What’s everyone’s take? Are we wearing him down at all?”

The team members were silent for a moment. “He’s tiring,” Jolie said finally. “And the exchange is an important concession.”

“He’s playing ball,” Dace agreed. “But I’m not ready to claim we’re anywhere near breaking him down yet.”

Dr. Ryder agreed. “He still feels in control. The decision to release the hostages was his, made on his terms. I don’t think he’s an imminent threat. But he does still believe he’s walking out of there with the cash.”

Lewis nodded. “I’ll let command center know about the hostage release.” He slipped out of the back door of the vehicle.

Herb Johnson had his head down, listening to a voice on his mike. “He’s disappeared down the hallway again,” he reported.

“There’s only the vice-president’s office and the vault down that way,” Sharper interjected. “Our guess about keeping the hostages in the vault must be right.”

Johnson bent his head, listening to his earpiece intently. “He’s marching a man toward the door. Has the kid draped over his shoulders still. The boy is crying.”

Dace shot a glance at Jolie, but she wasn’t looking at him. Studying her profile, however, he could see that the muscles in her jaw were tight. The involvement of the boy was hard on her. Odd how he could read her emotions better now than he’d been able to eighteen months earlier. She’d shut down then. They both had. And when he’d lashed out at her for her seeming lack of feeling, he’d been lashing out as much at himself. At fate. At a cruel God that had snatched away his greatest joy.

Just the memory of the accusation he’d leveled sent a burn of shame through him. Unable to reach her emotionally, he’d reacted with anger. Anger was about the only feeling that hadn’t hurt back then.

But it had hurt her. Them. Because a few short weeks after Sammy’s funeral, she’d left. And then there’d been no reaching her at all.

“The first hostage is out,” Johnson reported. He listened a few more seconds before continuing, “It’s a man. Naked. And inside the HT’s allowing one man and one woman to use the restrooms while he watches. He doesn’t leave himself exposed.”

The hostage would be given a blanket and led to the command center for debriefing. He could have valuable information about the gunman inside. And they had to be certain the released man was indeed a hostage, and not the HT himself, mounting a bold escape.

“He’s showing concern for the hostages,” Dr. Ryder said with a degree of relief. “Holding them in the vault kept them separate from the HT. Made it easier for him to avoid seeing them as human. This may be a very good sign.”

“Might be a good time to distract him with a call,” Sharper suggested.

“Go ahead and try,” Dace told Jolie. But he knew the HT wasn’t going to answer right now. The man was too smart for that.

But then, maybe he was giving this guy too much credit. How smart could he really be if he still thought there was any way he was going to be allowed to walk away from this thing?

Twenty minutes crawled by, with Johnson relaying the intel about the activity inside. The HT had worked his way through most of the captives before a rap sounded at the double back doors.

They were pulled open, revealing Lewis’s grim demeanor. Behind him Dace could see several unfamiliar faces, and his stomach took a nosedive. The effing-B-I had arrived.

“Officers.” The dispassionate tone was belied by the fury glittering in the man’s eyes. “The feds have decided to crash the party. They’ll be taking over negotiations.”

Chapter Three

It was more than a little anticlimactic to be relegated to onlooker after taking an active role in neutralizing the situation. Dace stood a few feet away from Jolie, near the edge of the inner perimeter, chafing at the change. An hour had ticked by since they’d briefed the feds and left the NOC unit. If they hadn’t been ordered by Lewis to stand by, he’d have gone back to the precinct to duty. At least there he’d be allowed to do something productive. There was no way the feds were going to accept help from the locals.

“Hey, Jolie!”

Dace turned his head to see Ron Wetzel, a sergeant from Jolie’s old precinct, pause as he was hurrying by.

“I didn’t know you were back in these parts. Had enough of busting movie stars and director wannabes and came back to the real people, huh?”

“You guessed it, Ron.” There was none of the guardedness in her tone that was present when she spoke to Dace. Her voice was friendly. “The glamour got to be too much for me. Give me a barricade any day over taking burglary complaints from self-important wine growers.”

“Where were you assigned there?”

Dace listened unabashedly to their conversation, more interested in her answers than he wanted to admit.

“Fifth precinct. Partnered with Selma Garcia. You know her?”

“I don’t think so.” Someone nearby shouted the man’s name, and he started to move away. “Hey, come on down to the Blue Lagoon sometime. See some of the guys.”

“I’ll do that. Tell everyone hello for me.”

“You got it.”

Dace kept his gaze trained on the bank, what he could see of it from this distance. So the rumor he’d heard had been right. She’d gone from here to the LAPD. He’d asked around after she’d moved out. After he found she’d changed her cell-phone number and left her job. Officers in her old precinct had been pretty closemouthed, but he’d heard she might have headed to LA. And that had been the end of it. Hard to find someone in a city of four million who obviously hadn’t wanted to be found. At least not by him.

That’s when the bitterness had swamped him and he’d forced himself to stop thinking about her for good.

At least he’d given it a damn good try.

But those efforts were going to be shot to hell if he had to see her every time they were called out to an incident. Metro City PD was large enough for them to coexist without running into each other often. With a population of half a million and a police force of over eight hundred, she could have been back in the city a year without them ever bumping into each other.

But instead, they’d been thrown together on the same HNT unit, requiring them to work closely together on volatile incidents. Which only went to prove yet again that fate was a fickle bitch with a mean sense of humor.

“What happened to Rob Marlow?”

Her question interrupted his dark thoughts. He and Marlow had been paired on HNT for three years, and the man had been his mentor in incident response.

“Took his twenty and out last month. He and his wife are moving to Burbank. And Thompson took a promotion and left HNT in January.”

“Burbank?” Her voice sounded as incredulous as he’d felt when his partner had relayed the news. “What are they—”

“So are you going to ask to be reassigned, or am I?” He didn’t glance in her direction, but knew she’d heard him. Sensed the stillness that came over her. “This is a distraction. For both of us. We can’t afford distractions in situations like this.”

“I don’t know. I thought we did all right together in there.”

He did look at her then, anger flaring abruptly at her even tone. Was she saying their proximity didn’t bother her at all? That it didn’t elicit the unwelcome bits of memory? The welter of suppressed emotion? He studied her, noting her composed expression, which gave away nothing of her thoughts. That had always been the problem—he’d never known what the hell she was thinking. Feeling. And rarely had she told him, even when he’d asked.

He’d had sex with her. Lived with her. Had a child with her. But he’d never really known her.

“I’ll ask for the transfer then,” he said flatly. Their messy personal history wasn’t something that could be swept neatly under the rug. And it would be unprofessional to enter situations like these and pretend otherwise. There was just too much at stake.

“No.” Although her expression didn’t change, her voice sounded strained. “It wouldn’t be fair for you to go. This is your squad. Your friends. If I’d known you’d returned to Alpha Squad I’d never have accepted this assignment. I’ll ask for a reassignment.”

He nodded curtly and returned his attention to the bank front. The food had been delivered, but it still sat untouched in front of the bank door. The second hostage hadn’t been released yet. What the heck was going on with the negotiations?

No answers were forthcoming. Reluctantly, he slanted a glance at Jolie. “What will you tell them?”

“I don’t know yet. I don’t want to hurt my chances of being reassigned, and there’s only one other HNT unit anyway. I’ll have to see if that team has a vacancy.”

Dace went silent, refusing to feel guilty. She was bilingual, which made her a good prospect for any HNT vacancy that came up. And it wasn’t his problem if she couldn’t get a different position. Hell, if she’d been assigned to the other squad, they wouldn’t be doing this now. He could have gone along for months, never even knowing she was around. Whoever had said ignorance was bliss had been dead-on.

“I’ll think of something.”

“You could always leave again. You’re good at that.”

The instant the words left his mouth he wanted to retract them. He didn’t often stoop to being petty and mean. But right now he was feeling petty and he was feeling mean. When she didn’t respond he reached out, snagged the sunglasses off the bridge of her nose and watched her eyes. Sometimes he could read there what he couldn’t see in her expression.

They stared at each other in silence and for an instant their surroundings faded away. For the second time that day he felt like he’d been sucker punched. Her eyes were laser blue, an unbelievably pure color. Sammy had had his mother’s eyes with Dace’s dark hair.

But he’d never seen Sammy’s eyes filled with the misery he read in hers.

“Jolie…”

“Recker! Conrad! Get back to the NOC unit!”

Lewis’s barked order shattered the moment, and Jolie retrieved the glasses he’d removed before heading back toward the converted ambulance. Dace followed, strangely shaken. He had no idea what he’d been about to say earlier, but whatever it might have been would have been a mistake. It was too late for words between them. There was too much history, most of it painful. Better that they get through the next few hours and then go their separate ways.

He’d spent the past sixteen months getting some sort of order back into his life. New apartment. New furniture. New women. He’d moved on, and he had no desire to revisit whatever had existed between him and Jolie Conrad.

There was a cluster of individuals standing outside the NOC unit, too many to fit inside. The tension, when they joined the group, was palpable. Besides Lewis, Dace and herself, there were nine others, five of whom Jolie recognized as the agents who had taken over the negotiation.

“Special Agents Dawson, Hart and Truman.” Lewis gestured to each newcomer in turn, before indicating the lone female. “And Special Agent in Charge Fenholt, all out of the Los Angeles field office. The FBI’s negotiators haven’t had much luck with the HT since our team left.”

“I’m sure given enough time, the gunman would respond to the Bureau’s negotiators,” Hart said stiffly. Jolie wondered if he was as young as he looked. He could have been a pledge for a college fraternity.

“We don’t have time,” Lewis said bluntly. “We just wasted an hour.”

“That’s right.” SAC Fenholt was a woman who looked to be pushing the Bureau’s mandatory retirement age. Her dark hair, liberally streaked with gray, was pulled severely back from a face with strong bones and an angular jaw. “Looking over a summary of your contacts, I didn’t think we had anything to lose by trying a new team. But the HT hasn’t answered a call since he discovered the change in negotiators. He demands to speak to Conrad.” Fenholt flicked a glance her way. “Each time he answers and doesn’t hear your voice he hangs up again. It doesn’t make sense to waste more time trying to reestablish a rapport with different negotiators. We want you two to resume the duty, under our supervision.”

Dace sent a pointed look at the crowd of individuals. “Sure. Maybe we can stack agents in a corner of the NOC so we don’t have to sit on each other’s laps.”

Fenholt ignored his sardonic tone. “In addition to you two, we’ll keep Agents Meadow and Spading on the team to serve as scribe and profiler.” She indicated two of the men from the FBI negotiation unit that had replaced the MCPD squad. “Special Agent Dawson will act as command center liaison. Special Agent Truman will serve as tactical liaison.” Truman, a forty-ish man with a graying buzz cut and a permanent scowl, pulled open the NOC door and heaved himself inside. Jolie and Dace stepped aside, waiting for all the other agents to enter first.

Fenholt paused, shot them a hard look. “Get the subject talking again. I understand that threats were issued earlier. I want him defused.”

“Why don’t you let us first assess the changes to his mood since you reassigned negotiators?” Jolie kept her voice bland but she saw the flicker in the woman’s expression before she turned and walked away. She hadn’t made a new friend, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Jolie and Dace sat down at the table inside. She scanned the notes that had been added to the situation board in their absence. Other than the HT’s demands for their return, there was no new information except for a few tactical details.

Dace picked up the phone and handed it to her. “He’s asking for you, so go ahead and make the call. We may have to make up some ground with him after this.”

She nodded, scanning the other members as each picked up headphones. Special Agent Dawson sat closest to the door. He hadn’t said a word through the entire exchange. His face, the color of fresh-brewed coffee, was completely expressionless. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that every word she and Dace uttered from here on out would be weighed and evaluated.

She made the call, let it ring. Eight times. Nine. Then it was picked up, but no one spoke.

“John, it’s Jolie Conrad. How are you? Everything okay in there?”

“Where’s Recker?”

“He’s here. Do you want to talk to him?”

“That’s okay.” The strain in his voice eased infinitesimally. “Took them long enough to get you two back. They were feds, right? The other two bozos on the line earlier? What’d they do, come in and claim jurisdiction?”

Although the words brought a smile to her lips, Jolie said only, “We all want the same thing here, John. For you to get through this okay. For the people inside to remain unharmed. Everybody still all right in there? I see the food has been delivered. It’s still setting outside the door. You’ve got to be getting hungry.”

“I’ll send someone out for it.”

“And then it will be time to release the second hostage. That was our earlier agreement.” She glanced at Dace, who gave her a slight nod. “I know you want to do the right thing.”

“We never agreed that you’d turn this over to the feds, though, did we? I feel a little betrayed, Jolie.” Despite his words, the man sounded calm. “You don’t want to do that again.”

“It was just bureaucratic politics. You understand that, right?”

“Now you understand why I went into business for myself.” There was dark humor in the words. “Being your own boss can be very rewarding.”

She didn’t need Dace’s gesture to pursue this line. Anything they could find out about the captor’s background would assist them in judging whom they were dealing with. And what he was capable of. “You sound like you have some experience with difficult bosses.”

“Enough to know that I never want another one. Nine-to-five wasn’t my thing.”

“I hear you there. The routine can get tiresome. What about it—”

There was a loud clatter, then the line went dead.

“What the hell happened?” Jolie threw out the question even as she tried to ring the phone again. “Find out what’s going on.”

Truman exchanged his earphones for a radio headset and listened intently. “The kid is putting up a struggle. Sounds like the HT is having trouble subduing him.” He turned away to speak urgently into the mike, alerting tactical that a hostage was about to be released. Special Agent Dawson slipped away, presumably to the command center.

Jolie tried the phone several times, but got no answer. Agent Meadow added notes from the last conversation to the situation board. Spading looked at her, his pale blue gaze assessing. “Sounds like he missed you.”

“We were making headway when our team got pulled,” she said shortly. “We’d won concessions. But another hour’s been wasted and the child has to be exhausted.” The HT didn’t strike Jolie as the patient sort. “The longer this goes on, the more upset he’s going to get.”

“An increasing danger to the child will be a big consideration in the decision for a tactical response,” Spading pointed out.

“As it should be,” she retorted. There was a tense knot in her chest that wouldn’t dissipate until Truman delivered the tactical report about what was happening in the bank. She threw an impatient look at the man, but his expression as he listened to his headset gave away nothing. “But I don’t think the HT’s at that point yet. He still thinks he’s going to get out of this thing.”

Spading gave a slow nod. “Agreed. But sooner or later it’s going to occur to him just how unlikely that is, and that’s when he’s at his most dangerous.”

“Unless we convince him to give up by that point,” Dace interjected.

Finally, Truman took off the headset. “A second hostage has been released unharmed. Hopefully he’ll be able to provide more intelligence than the first one did.”

Dawson picked that moment to reenter the NOC unit. “Special Agent in Charge Fenholt is growing increasingly concerned about the child’s welfare. She’s putting a time limit on negotiations. You’ve got no more than two hours before we mount an assault.”

“So far none of the hostages have been harmed.” The snap in Dace’s voice was barely discernible, but it was there. “An assault ensures injuries. Time limits are counterproductive when talking to—”

“Two hours,” the man repeated, taking his seat again.

“Go ahead and make contact,” Dace instructed.

But Jolie already had the phone ringing. And although she’d half expected otherwise, John answered after only a moment. “You okay in there, John?” First and foremost, a negotiator had to express concern for the hostage taker. It was crucial to maintain the rapport that was built one painstaking conversation at a time. A rapport the feds had disrupted with their arrival.

“I’m fine. You’ve got your second person released. I’ve kept my word.”

“Never had any doubt about that.” There was definite tension showing in his voice, Jolie decided. “But I’d be even more excited to see you come out. Unharmed. How about it? Put down your weapon and come out with your hands raised. That’s the surest way to end this thing peacefully. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I’ll be out. When the time is right. I want the car’s gas tank full. See to that.”

Jolie sent a questioning look at Dawson, who shrugged. “I’ll check on that for you, John.”

“I don’t want anyone charging in here,” he warned. “I’ll come out, but I set the timeline.”

“That’s good. I like to hear you talking about coming out. No one wants to go in there, John. No one wants to hurt you.”

“Don’t kid yourself.” The HT gave a short laugh. “Everyone wants something in this life. And there’s not much doubt what all the cops out there are waiting for.”

“What do you think they’re waiting for?”

“Me. Getting carried away in a body bag.”

Jolie leaned forward, elbows propped on the table. “John, you’re wrong about that.” Her voice was firm. “The best sight we could get is you walking out of there on your own volition, bringing this thing to a peaceful end. Seeing all those people in there unharmed. That’s what we want. Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

“You do this a lot?”

She followed his sudden switch of topic seamlessly. “You mean talk to people in trouble? I’ve had some experience. Lots of people just want to be listened to. I’m here to listen, John.”

Dace slid a slip of paper into her view. At least he’d taken the care to print, always a bonus when it came to reading his handwriting. She read the directive and glanced his way, giving him a short nod.

“No one really listens,” the man on the other end of the phone said flatly. “It’s everyone for himself in this world. Yeah, you have friends, coworkers, if you’re punching a clock. But in the end, you’re alone. And people who don’t recognize that are suckers.”

The words struck a chord. There was a time when the sentiment was not so far from Jolie’s own attitude. People invariably let you down. It was one of life’s absolutes. It was infinitely easier, wiser, to rely on yourself. But that was before she met Dace. Before she’d had Sammy. Before she’d been the one to let the people in her life down. Big time.

“You forgot family,” she said smoothly, bringing up the topic on Dace’s note. “You have family, John?”

There was a pause, and the ensuing silence was charged with emotion. In the background Jolie could hear Tyler fussing. Calling for his mother. She blocked out the sound. Blocked out everything but the man’s answer.

“Yeah, you’re right. Family matters. About the only thing that does, when it gets down to it. How about you? You have any family?”

And suddenly the charged emotion had nothing to do with the man’s response. Now the air of expectation emanated from Dace.

Jolie hesitated. “No,” she said finally, taking care not to look in Dace’s direction. “There’s just me. But if there’s someone we can call for you, John, you need to let me know. We can make that happen.”

“No, I’ll be talking to him soon enough. When I walk out of here.”

“When will that be, John? When are you planning on walking out of there?”

“Soon. I’ll let you know.” And with that the line went dead.

Disconnecting, Jolie looked at Dace. “So what do you think? Is he considering giving up, or does he still think he’s taking that vehicle and heading out to Never-Never-Land?”

“He’s hanging on to the thought of escape.” Spading nodded agreement while Dawson said nothing. “We still have a ways to go in convincing him to give up.” Dace scratched his jaw, which was already showing signs of a shadow. He’d often shaved twice a day while they were together. The memory snuck into her subconscious, unbidden. Before he’d join her in bed, his jaw would be smooth, inviting her fingers. Her lips. Whatever else had gone on between them, they’d never lacked communication in bed.

A slow heat suffused her body and Jolie forced her gaze away. It was only when actual words were needed that they both had fallen short.

“The way he’s still talking about that car, I don’t think he’s given up on the idea of getting out of there with a few hostages.”

“Maybe not.” With effort she shifted her thoughts firmly back into the present. “But we have time, if we can convince Fenholt to drop this ridiculous time limit and allow us to continue the process.”

“Activity inside.” They all stared at Truman as he recounted the information coming through on his headset. “He’s bringing people to the lobby by twos. Handing them zip cords and having them bind one another’s hands and feet.” He sent a meaningful look to Dawson. “He’s lining them up on the floor below the windows.”

Without a word, Agent Dawson left the NOC. “He’s protecting himself against a tactical assault,” Jolie said.

Spading added, “His actions aren’t that of a man getting ready to give up.”

“His actions also aren’t escalating,” Dace countered. “He hasn’t been violent. Hasn’t made threats for a couple hours. We’ve got no reason to rush this.”

But they were being rushed. Fenholt’s time limit hung over their heads, the minutes ticking away. Jolie glanced at her watch and reached for the phone. They couldn’t make progress when they weren’t engaged in negotiations.

Dawson returned just then. His face, usually so impassive, was set in hard grim lines. “Establishing contact again? Good. Tell him the vehicle is going to be gassed and running, pulled up closer to the back door.”

“What?” Dace exchanged a look with Jolie. “Why? What’s the rush? We’ve got over an hour left on Fenholt’s timeline. The HT is still talking. There’s no reason to deliberately draw him out now.”

“You know the procedure. Just work the subject.”

Jolie felt the frustration coming off Dace in waves, but concentrated only on the ringing phone. Communication between command and HNT unit was a sensitive process at the best of times. As negotiators they had to know enough about what was going on to sound knowledgeable to the gunman. But it was dangerous for them to be apprised of tactical plans. There was too much risk that they’d say something to alert the hostage taker.

That was hard enough to accept when she trusted the people in command. That wasn’t the case here. Foreboding knotted her chest.

“Jolie.” The HT’s familiar voice sounded.

“John. How are things going in there? Have you given any more thought to my earlier suggestion?”

“About coming out? I’ve done nothing but think about getting out of here since this morning, so yeah, I guess you can say I’ve been thinking about it. Been taking precautions in here, too. Just in case some of those cops get anxious to get inside.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

“It’s good to hear, and it’s not that I don’t trust you, Jolie. Really.” His tone was sardonic. “Let’s just call my measures a little extra insurance.”

“Tell me about what you’re doing, John.”

“Nothing more than a little rearranging. No one’s been hurt. But the hostages are now tied up and lying under the windows and across the doorways. Do you know what that means, Jolie?”

She did. The measure guaranteed that a SWAT entry would injure hostages. “That’s unnecessary. I’ve already said no one’s coming in to get you. Why would we? You’re coming out. You told me so yourself.”

“And I’m a man of my word. Proved that earlier, didn’t I? By sending those hostages out.”

“You did. It was the right thing to do, John. And I’ve got some good news for you. Your vehicle is going to be pulled up closer to the back door of the bank. Can you see it?”

“Somehow I thought the feds would start seeing things my way.” Dark humor tinged his tone. “I’ll almost be sorry to say goodbye, Jolie.”

And with that, the line abruptly went dead.

With studied control, she set the phone down carefully on the table. Jaw tight, she speared a look at Dawson, who was watching her. “Fenholt’s hurrying this.”

“It’s her call to make.”

Shaking her head vehemently, Jolie retorted, “She’s crazy. She wants to take him down as he tries for the vehicle? There’s no way to avoid injuring a hostage. How’s that going to play on the national news this evening?”

“Better than twenty-three dead hostages would, I expect. Our guys are good. They’ll minimize the casualties.”

She gripped the edge of the table tightly and fought for control. “One of those casualties is almost certainly going to be a two-year-old boy. She has to consider the fallout if she—”

“Ms. Conrad.” The finality of Dawson’s tone stopped her. “The decision has already been made. The HT is probably heading out the door as we speak.”

Dace put a hand on her shoulder, but Jolie shrugged it off and made her way out the back to round the vehicle and stare toward the bank. The building blocked her view of whatever was transpiring outside its back doors. Helplessness flooded through her. Her part here was likely done. For good or bad, the outcome was fast approaching and there wasn’t a thing more she could do about it.

It was useless to replay her conversations with the HT in her mind, questioning whether she could have done anything differently. The subject had set this whole thing in motion once he’d walked into that bank. The one thing she was sure of was that somehow Tyler was part of this final act, as well.

The first explosion rocked the ground beneath her and had her slapping a hand to the NOC unit for support. The second and third battered her eardrums, coupled with the sound of shattering glass from the bank. A trio of fireballs rose like blazing rockets toward the dusky sky.

Chapter Four

“We believe at least three remote-activated explosive devices were placed in the area behind the bank. Possibly housed in magnetic boxes attached to the light poles here, here and here.” Special Agent in Charge Fenholt indicated the spots on a hand-drawn map hanging on the whiteboard, showing the back of the building. “They could have been placed there when the HT was scouting the location or even as early as this morning before he headed inside. A driver in an armored car used the distraction caused by the detonations to crash through barricades here—” she pointed at the corner on the street in back of the bank “—traveling at a high rate of speed. One local officer was hit and injured by the vehicle. Three others, including one of our agents, were killed in the blasts.”

There was a grim silence in the conference room following this piece of news. Dace stretched his legs out under the table, taking care not to brush Jolie seated beside him. The debriefing promised to last well into the night, and like the past several hours of the incident, the feds were running the show. He doubted he was the only one in the room braced for the inevitable blame game to ensue.

Extra tables and chairs had to be brought in to accommodate all the personnel in the room. The local SWAT/HNT unit was accounted for, as well as the FBI’s SWAT squad and Fenholt’s team.

“What’s the total casualty and injury count?” Metro City Police Chief Carl Sanders sat at the conference table flanked by his deputy chief, Robert Grey. The chief had an aging football player’s still-solid physique, fading gingery hair and a shrewd blue gaze that stripped through all defenses.

Fenholt walked back to her chair and consulted some notes bundled together on the table before her. “Forty-seven were taken to local hospitals for treatment, including the hostages inside the bank. They all suffered various lacerations from the flying glass when the windows blew out. Suffice to say, as a distraction, the explosives served admirably. Under the circumstances, the casualties were contained.”

Dace gave an incredulous snort. Picking up a remote, Fenholt turned on a large TV mounted in one corner of the room. “We’ve obtained this footage from KCHM, shot from their helicopter.” Silently, they all watched the HT exit the back door of the bank, with Tyler Mills on his shoulders. He wore a red backpack and was carrying bank bags. All eyes and weapons would have been on the man as he headed to the station wagon. With hindsight it was easy to see the subject duck at the last moment, seeking shelter behind the vehicle’s bumper just seconds before the explosions and the resulting pandemonium.

The video went grainy as the helicopter must have sought safety from a different position. Moments later the recording resumed, showing the armored truck barreling onto the scene. The HT was running toward it, and as the front passenger door swung open, bullets sprayed out of the back window at the law enforcement officers, who were returning fire. Dace watched as the gunman neared the moving vehicle, tossing the bags inside before reaching a hand to grasp the door handle. Then in the next moment he jerked as one leg crumpled, then the other. His grasp on the handle never loosened, but the vehicle was dragging him now, and Tyler rolled off his shoulders. A flak-vest-clad agent crawled over to grab the boy, pulling him to safety.

“We left the local SWAT snipers up there for additional coverage, and one had a better vantage point than our guys when this went down.”

“Nice shot, Carter,” Lewis said, satisfaction lacing his tone. Dace shot Ava a look of approval, and she inclined her head, her long dark hair swinging slightly. He felt a vicious stab of satisfaction that the only damn thing that had gone right in those few seconds could be attributed to their team.

He watched the TV screen as the rest of the drama unfolded. More shots were fired, and at least some of them hit their mark, before the HT was dragged into the vehicle as it sped away. A masked gunman leaned out the window and appeared to be shooting skyward, and the screen abruptly went blank.

“They ensured the media copter wouldn’t follow them,” observed Sanders.

“What about the boy? Tyler Mills.”

Dace stilled at the sound of Jolie’s voice. Details of the final minutes of the bank incident had succeeded in diverting his attention from the presence of the woman next to him, but his focus ricocheted back. Although he didn’t look in her direction, he was supremely aware of the strain in her voice.

“He was taken to the hospital with lacerations and a concussion, but he should make a full recovery,” Agent Dawson answered, speaking for the first time. “His mother was treated and released.”

Dace sensed the tension creeping from her and moved his shoulders, impatient with himself. It was as if he were hyperaware around her, attuned to the slightest shift in her moods. Which was a joke, since he’d failed miserably at reading her during the last months they’d been together. Or maybe he’d been turned too inward to try. Hell, he didn’t know. But he’d be damned if he’d allow her to walk back into his life and wield this kind of power the day she reentered it. The shock of seeing her again had knocked him off balance. He needed to regain his distance, fast.

“You’ve got the hospitals covered?” he asked. Not that he expected the HT’s accomplices to risk having him treated in a hospital. As well prepared as they appeared to have been, they’d certainly know that medical professionals were required to report gunshot wounds.

“Of course. And from the amount of blood left behind, the gunman appears to be seriously wounded, so we got lucky there.”

Luck hadn’t had a damn thing to do with it. Ava Carter hadn’t earned the call sign “Cold Shot” by chance.

“So including the HT, that brings the total team to at least three,” Mendel surmised. “The driver, the shooter in the backseat and the hostage taker in the bank.” Any one of them could have planned to pick up the explosive devices later, had they not been needed.

Fenholt used the remote to turn off the television. “Probably four or five,” she said. “Even though an alert was on the airwaves within seconds of the truck pulling away, it was only spotted momentarily before we lost it for good. Since it’s hard to miss an armored vehicle, and one hasn’t been found abandoned, we suspect they had a semi waiting nearby. The truck drove into its back, the semi pulled out.” Almost as an afterthought she added, “But that’s only a theory. We’re also checking out all the buildings in a two-mile area surrounding the last sighting to be sure it isn’t housed in a garage or warehouse.”

Fenholt looked at Dr. Ryder, sitting a couple chairs down from Dace. “In the meantime, we need to focus on the conversations with the HT. What can we glean from them?”

“You’ve got the transcribed notes of the exchanges,” he began.

“It’s not enough.” There was a snap in her voice, barely discernible, but there. The unflappable SAC was showing signs of stress. Dace wondered how much crap was raining down on her over this mess. “I want observations compiled from you and from the local HNT negotiators. Each of you will need to look over the transcript to see if it’s complete before we turn it over to a forensic psychologist. In the meantime, is there anything that struck you about this guy that will help us in the short term?”

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