She returned the phone to her pocket, then lay back on the bed-and rolled and grabbed the gla.s.s of water just as it started to spill. Fast as a cat. But sleep was never enough to keep her from feeling worn down.

Rebecca Rose was afraid of one thing-afraid that she wanted out. She had nine more years before she hit the GS-1811 wall, but still...

'This b.a.s.t.a.r.d is the last one,' she promised herself, and closed her eyes.

It seemed seconds later, she choked and looked up to see a man with dirty blond hair leaning over the bed. He had one hand on her throat and in the other he held a Leatherman with the blade out and locked.

'My daddy's dead,' he growled.

A ribbon of spit fell into her eye.

Thump.

William opened one eye and stared at the bed cover. He had not pulled it back-he was still dressed-and for a moment he wondered where he was and why.

He looked at the clock on the nightstand but that was no good-it had been off by four hours when he came in. It said ten o'clock. He guessed he had slept soundly for about two hours. So it was now about six. Time to think about finding some food and getting back to work. There was a Panda Express across the street from the motel. Something with noodles would taste good.

He washed his face in the bathroom.

Thump.

Rose was up and making noise. But it wasn't her style to make sounds loud enough to come through the walls. He glanced at the Lynx display. She was still on his team grid. Rebecca habitually kept her mike off but she had not switched to privacy mode, something older agents frequently forgot.

He lowered his arm with some embarra.s.sment. Like looking in on a lady in her boudoir-he could get a sense of what she was doing by her vital signs.

He quickly wiped his face with a hand towel and pulled aside the curtain a few inches. A thin brown-haired girl in a pioneer dress-something in gingham, anyway, with blue checks and a kind of ap.r.o.n, real Little House on the Prairie-walked past. He heard the door to the right, Rebecca's door, open and close.

Rebecca had visitors.

He wondered why she hadn't told him.

's.h.i.t,' he said. Typical new agent, jumping at boo-squat.

But Rebecca was quiet as a cat. He did not remember ever hearing her move or even take a step. She wore rubber soles.

And the pioneer girl was completely out of fashion in this part of the state. Real Bo-Peep. This time, his curiosity about Rebecca's vital signs was purely professional. If she's got Mary and her lamb coming up to the room, wouldn't I need to know that about a partner? If she's got Mary and her lamb coming up to the room, wouldn't I need to know that about a partner?

He lifted his watch again and punched the display through her stats. Sure enough, her stress numbers were up...way beyond the levels of s.e.xual stimulus. As well, her skin conductivity had altered and the sniffer in Rebecca's unit was picking up a distinct pong of stress and fear.

If she's a Lesbian, she doesn't want to be.

He unbolted the door, let the chain and latch down gently. On the grit-surfaced floor just outside Rebecca's door lay a piece of bra.s.s-plated chain. The end of the chain had been clipped with a bolt cutter.

William took a step. The next door beyond Rebecca's room was open. He looked left. At the end of the walkway stood a service cart hung with a laundry bag and stacked with fresh sheets and rolls of toilet paper, buckets filled with little bottles of soap and shampoo, and folded white towels.

He turned to face the rail looking out over the parking lot. In front of the motel, a plump woman in a brown maid's uniform ran across the street as fast as her stocky legs could carry her.

Getting the h.e.l.l out.

Now was the time to jump to conclusions. Someone had taken the maid's pa.s.s key and deadbolt shim. They had brought their own bolt cutters for the chain.

This was real.

Gingham=pioneer spirit.

Christ, it's them. They found us.

William shut his door to a crack. Before his conscious mind could catch up, he had his slate in hand and had punched the b.u.t.ton for agent a.s.sistance. Then he took his SIG from under the pillow. It vibrated in recognition of his keycode.

The automated Bureau phone voice came back; his location was pinpointed and local police or other agents would be there as soon as possible. 'If you are able, leave your message.'

'One agent hostage, one active, this location. Request any and all backup.' He closed the unit and slung it on his belt. From here on, the slate would track his movements and relay whatever he was hearing to the Seattle first response center.

He put his ear to the wall. Through the plaster, just barely, he caught: 'Strip her. She's wired.' 'Strip her. She's wired.'

Male, angry and not too old.

Then, 'How do you know she's a fed?' 'How do you know she's a fed?' A young woman or teenager. Paper crackled. A young woman or teenager. Paper crackled.

William's Lynx made a little wheep. Rebecca was now off his team grid.

'Check her purse.'

'I don't see a purse.'

'Then check her jacket!'

William opened the door again and flattened himself against the wall to the right. He knew better than to announce himself. They would cut or shoot her and then try to shoot him. If they had gone this far, they weren't too concerned about their own lives.

They had been followed from the farm, perhaps from the town. Do they even know I'm here? Do they even know I'm here?

From next door he heard a m.u.f.fled grunt. Then the male's voice, louder: 'He went to get pizza, right? You kill my daddy and then you run off to eat pizza and fornicate, right?' 'He went to get pizza, right? You kill my daddy and then you run off to eat pizza and fornicate, right?'

The girl's voice: 'Keep it down, Jeremiah.'

'Get her badge! I want to make her eat it!'

They had opened the door to the wrong room first and found it empty. Then they had broken into Rebecca's room.

William sucked in a deep breath, letting it go with a quick and nearly silent ohhmmmmmm. ohhmmmmmm. He had learned that from a homicide detective. He had learned that from a homicide detective.

'I'm going to slice you open like a squealing pig. We're going to watch while you bleed to death.'

If he kicked at the door and went in now they'd kill her instantly. Backup would not arrive in time. He had just a few minutes, if that, while they toyed with her.

William looked at the maid's cart.

The young man with dirty blond hair and the finest little blue eyes-the girl had called him Jeremiah-tossed Rebecca's gun aside once he saw it would not fire for him. The girl kicked it under the television cabinet.

Rebecca sat hunched over on the side of the bed, her folded hands between her legs. They had ripped the b.u.t.tons on her blouse and pulled it down from her shoulders, restricting her arm movements and pulling away her Lynx sensors. She had not been free to hit her panic b.u.t.ton before it was on the floor. Her coat and creds were in the closet. She had removed her belt and packs before lying down and they were on the bathroom counter. The young man and the girl had not yet gone into the bathroom.

For the moment it was best not to talk. They wanted her alive long enough to have their fun and express themselves.

Jeremiah sat beside Rebecca, reaching around with his right hand and poking the tip of the gray blade against the right side of her throat. She could feel a drop of blood sliding like a warm slug to her clavicle.

The girl stepped closer, sideways, as if afraid, then leaned over. She gasped as Rebecca met her eyes, then reached out and slapped her. Rebecca turned her face to one side. Dressmaker's dummy. Let them think she was in shock. Not too far wrong. She must have been sleeping like a log. Her mouth tasted dry and sour. She could see the blood drop ooze its way down her breast. It spread out in the lace of her bra.

The girl reached into the folds of her dress and brought out a Smith & Wesson 9mm. She pointed it at Rebecca's head.

The young man shook his hair aside and moved the knife down. His left hand held her left arm at the elbow. His head was about six inches behind and to her left. He leaned awkwardly on the bed. He would go off balance with less than a nudge. If he fell, the knife would slice her throat but probably not cut anything vital.

Still, she hated being cut-any kind of cut.

And then the girl would put a slug in her brain.

'You raided private property,' Jeremiah said. 'You shot our daddy. You sent in the whole d.a.m.ned army and just shot him like a dog. Gutless cowards. You have no idea what we were getting ready for, what we had all planned out, no idea, no idea, do you?' do you?'

'I'm listening,' Rebecca said. 'Tell me.'

'Tell you what what, b.i.t.c.h?'

'Tell me what happened. I wasn't there.'

'You're a d.a.m.ned liar!'

Spit flew again. She wanted to wipe her eye but didn't dare. The young man's spit from a minute ago was sitting on the corner of her lid, still damp. 'What's your sister's name?' Rebecca asked. She could barely talk. The knife made a shallow slice as her throat moved. She grimaced. 'Ow.'

The boy backed the knife off half an inch. Good sign, for now.

'She's not my sister. She's my stepmother. Daddy had four wives.'

'Oh.'

Rebecca smelled oranges. Thousands of oranges.

'We're getting out of here. We have money, safe houses, they'll never find us. You'll never tell. You don't know it yet but you're already already dead.' dead.'

Jeremiah had rebalanced himself, a young man's natural caution, had pulled the knife back another inch and scootched himself forward on the bed. Not a well-trained move.

Also good.

'Right,' Rebecca said.

'Where'd the other one go?' the girl asked. 'We saw two of you check in.'

'He left,' Rebecca said. 'He went back.'

'Back where?'

'To Seattle. I'm off-duty.'

The girl awkwardly gripped the 9mm in both hands. She didn't seem to know how to use it. Her eyes were dark brown and with her thin face and sallow skin she wasn't very pretty. Rebecca saw, through the long dress, that the girl was at least six months pregnant. She looked more worried than angry but the slap had stung. And her finger was making little jerks on the trigger.

'How long before you're due?' Rebecca asked, and then cringed inwardly. No need to remind her of her condition or her lost husband.

'You s.l.u.t s.l.u.t,' the girl said. 'We were all doing G.o.d's work.'

'Shut up,' Jeremiah said. 'Let's just cut her and get the h.e.l.l out of here. We'll wait in the other room.'

Again the knife touched Rebecca's throat and drew blood. She could feel the young man's arm tighten. She looked up at the window. Bright flickering yellow warmed the rectangle of inner curtains.

'Something's on fire,' she said.

William heaped four rolls of toilet paper on the railing with tails dragging on the deck. He then squirted them all with streamers of orange-smelling fluid from the bottle of Goo-Gone he had found in the cleaning tray on the cart. Unwinding more toilet paper around the bottom of the railing, he made sure to leave a s.p.a.ce in front of the door. He did not want them to shrink back into the room. He wanted them to open the door, look at the fire, and then try to escape-without hurting Rebecca.

'What the h.e.l.l are you up to?' a man called from the parking lot. William took a book of motel matches-some people still rented smoking rooms, thank G.o.d-and lit the soaked, citrus-scented bundles. The result was immediate-a wall of brilliant flame right in front of the window to Rebecca's room.

He reached around and pounded on the door. 'Fire!' he shouted. 'Everyone out NOW!'

For an agonizing few seconds, he hung back flat to the wall. He shot a glance out to the street through the flames and then to the left, at people milling in the parking lot. They were staring up, mouths gaping. He did not dare shout for them to leave. No sign of patrol cars or fire trucks or any other a.s.sistance. The smoke billowed black under the roof. What a stupid a.s.s thing to do. What if the whole place burned down?

How long until the manager or someone came running with an extinguisher and stood in his line of fire?

He heard shrill, childish cries and a hoa.r.s.e shout inside the room and then the door opened. William stayed flat against the wall. A hand clutching a steel blade poked out and then withdrew. He heard scuffling then a metallic pop-not a gunshot-and a mist of water puffed through the door. The room's sprinkler system had gone off.

'Fire!' William shouted. 'The roof's collapsing! Get out now!'

A young man with blond hair lurched out, wiping water from his eyes, waving the knife as if fanning away the flames. William swung a quarter turn with gun in both hands, crouched, barrel pointing right at the center of the blond man's torso.

'FBI, drop the knife and get your hands up!' William shouted. 'Do it now!' The flame ebbed but thick smoke blew onto both of them.

'Jesus!' the boy shouted. He did not drop the knife. He couldn't see William or his gun. The smoke had finished the job the water had started. William began a pull, let it off. The boy stumbled blindly away from the door, blade wavering, pointing straight out, then down.

'Drop the knife NOW!'

The young man shuddered and opened his hand. The knife handle hit the deck and bounced. Inside the room William heard a girl scream then a gunshot. The window blew out over the young man and he collapsed to his knees, covered with shards of gla.s.s. 'Jesus, Jesus,' he mewed.

Rebecca lurched out with a twist of blond hair in her fist. Her blouse had been ripped and pulled down around her shoulders. She tugged the girl in the gingham dress out onto the deck and flung her at the iron rail and the burning stacks of toilet paper. The girl bounced off, knocking flaming, smoking rolls down to the cars and asphalt. Rebecca and the girl were now between William and the crouching young man. Rebecca saw this through strings of wet hair and swung about with a dancer's precision, pushing the girl at William. William caught her, twisted one of her arms around, and had her face-down on the deck. He kneeled on top of her. Both of the girl's hands were empty but clutching, scratching at his pants. He pressed a knee in her back hard enough to make the vertebrae pop. The girl oofed and got quiet.

'Where's the gun?' William shouted.

Smoke rolled away.

The boy looked sideways, eyes wide and red. He reached out. Rebecca kicked the knife under the rail and over the parking lot. Then she kicked the young man in the side, hard, which put him once more on his back, and stomped him right in the groin with a bare bleeding foot. He curled up like a pillbug, alternately moaning and screaming. She flipped him over in the gla.s.s and pulled back both of his arms.

The manager came up from the other side, spraying foam over everything. 'f.u.c.k this!' he was shouting. 'You trying to burn me out?'

'FBI,' William said, wiping his eyes.