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.

Pulsuz fraqment bitdi. Davamını oxumaq istəyirsiniz?

Terms Of Surrender

Bu kitabı axtaranlar oxuyur