He said, "Seriously, baby."

"It ain't bulls.h.i.t, Clyde. He knew way too much."

Clyde crossed the floor. He ended up directly to my front, sort of looking down and studying me. He said to MaryLou, "I don't like the sound of this, baby. We shoulda learned about that"

She crossed her arms and said, "You got it. That's what I'm wonderin'."

I was really interested in this conversation, and Clyde had his lips open to say something I was sure was going to be really interesting, but before he got a word out, the front door blew right off the hinges with a loud boom. At almost the same instant, the gla.s.s doors to the porch exploded inward, showering us with gla.s.s.

MaryLou screamed. For a fraction of an instant, she and Clyde stared at each other, mesmerized. Then they came to their senses and immediately spun and dashed for the bedrooms.

Instinctively I tipped my chair sideways and toppled over, ending up on the floor. The room filled with smoke and dust and stunk of cordite. Then, through the smoke I saw a squad of men in dark pants, dark shirts, bulletproof armor, and black helmets rushing from the front door, and more pouring through the now gaping rear porch entrance. Hopefully somebody had remembered to brief the cavalry that we weren't all Indians in here.

But it looked like somebody with a body heat sensor was directing the traffic, because they ignored me, and they ignored Jason, and they sped right past us, straight for the bedrooms.

In an instant, I heard shots being fired and men yelling. I looked at the front door again, and through the haze and smoke I saw another figure, and after a moment I made out Agent Jennifer Margold, in her blue FBI windbreaker, with her blue FBI ballcap, in the shooter's crouch, scanning the room, pointing her FBI pistol directly at me. I saw her face, and I saw it tighten, and then the barrel shifted slightly upward and went off.

I heard the first bullet strike tissue, make a soft thudding sound, and even through his gag, Jason Barnes emitted a sort of m.u.f.fled groan. I tried yelling through my gag and I tried kicking his chair over, but I was too late. Bang, bangJennie fired two more shotshis chair flew backward, and Barnes ended up on his back.

Jennie kept her arms straight and her pistol up, just as they teach at the FBI Academy, and she rushed toward me. More shots and loud cursing were coming from the back bedrooms, where the Texans were apparently making their last stand.

Jennie tore the black tape off my mouth, then rushed behind me, bent down, and untied the ropes. She asked, "You okay?"

"I'm . . . yes."

"We kept turning your tracker off and on. You were still moving. We had to wait till you stopped."

I was free of the restraints and I stood up and rubbed my wrists, which would be sore for a week. I pointed at Jason's body. "Why did you do that?

"To keep him from shooting you."

"The guy was tied up, Jennie."

Jennie looked down at the body She studied Jason Barnes for a moment, and then looked at me, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open. "I. . . oh, Jesus. Sean, I... I had no idea. Through the smoke, I saw you ... on the floor . . . then . . . and then him. I thought he was . . . was standing over you, and I thought. . ."

I regarded Jason's corpse. One shot had entered his mid-chest, and two had punched into his forehead and gone straight through, blowing his brains across the room. His eyes were locked open, his pupils rolled upwardas though he had tried to watch the bullets pa.s.s through.

From down the hall, by the bedrooms, came a really loud boomwe both recoiled from the shock. Another percussion or stun grenade went off, followed by more yells and more shots. A real battle was going on back there.

"Come on." Jennie took my arm and pulled me along. I followed, a little dumbstruck. Outside and about fifty yards from the townhouse were parked two armored trucks, and we sprinted down the sidewalk and ended up taking cover behind the nearest one.

We stood for a moment, winded, a little unsteady. Then Jennie reached over and touched my face. Actually, not touched, she wiped. She said, "You're bleeding a lot."

Until that moment, I hadn't realized that gla.s.s splinters from the porch door had sprayed me. Blood was streaming into my face from my scalp, and a quick visual inspection revealed a number of cuts on my chest, my arms, even my legs. Now that I realized they were there, they hurt like h.e.l.l.

An agent dressed in an urban commando getup, a flak vest, and a royally p.i.s.sed-off expression approached. He walked straight to Jennie, got two inches from her face, and barked, "What in the h.e.l.l were you doing?"

"Getting my man out."

"I told you, Agent, n.o.body enters till the Hostage Rescue Team gives the all-clear."

"I recall that."

"This was an outrageous breach of procedures. I could care less if you're a supervisor. I'm gonna report this."

Jennie looked at him, not giving an inch. "Go ahead. I told my hostage I'd guarantee his safety. I meant it."

Mr. Macho saw this was going nowhere, apparently remembered he had a firefight on his hands, and stomped off in a nasty huff.

Did I suddenly feel bad, or what? I said, "You were coming in to get me?"

She did not reply I squeezed her hand. "Thank you."

She looked very unhappy, distracted even, and I thought I knew what was going on here.

After a moment, I asked her, "Jason was your first kill. Right?"

"Yeah. My first kill. A man with his hands tied behind his back. I. . . well, I. . ." Her eyes became misty.

"It happens, Jennie. You couldn't know his hands were tied behind his back. For all you knew, he had a weapon. Through the smoke and dust, that's what your eye saw, and what your mind registered. In the heat of action, the eye overrules the mind, and the finger on the trigger doesn't discriminate."

She looked at me and said nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

Within three minutes, the hostage rescue team leader must've radioed out that the deed was done, because everybody suddenly relaxed. Actually that might be overstating it, but a few agents lit up cigarettes, and a few people wandered out into the open from behind the vans.

A forensics team was sent into the townhouse, followed closely by four teams of medical technicians bearing stretchers. Then lots of unmarked sedans Med with Johnny-come-latelies began pouring down the street. On their heels followed the ubiquitous TV news vans, prenotified, I guess, so the public could witness this effervescent moment in FBI history But I wasn't being judgmentalthe Feds had bled and suffered for this one. What little credit was due, they deserved.

Somebody with bad manners in a gray suit kept ordering me into an ambulance. I insisted I was fine, and swore I could and Would swagger out of here on my own two feet. It was all macho posturing from big bad Sean, of course. I get a little weird standing around in public in my undershorts.

Also Jennie remained very hurt and uptight, staring off into s.p.a.ce, absorbed in her own thoughts. I held her hand and I figuredno matter how sillythat I was helping her hold it together.

But the FBI has a lot of rules, and rule number one is follow all the rules. So somebody went and found the commander of the HRT, who approached me and said, "Drummond, right?"

"No. He's the tall, good-looking guy wearing all his clothes."

"One of those splinters fly into your brain or something?"

I checked my groin. "Nope."

He laughed." I heard you were crazy as h.e.l.l. Listen, you did a good job. We appreciate it."

"Aw, any dumba.s.s could've done it."

"My thoughts exactly." He stopped smiling. "Now, are you getting into that ambulance or do I put your a.s.s in?"

Through the corner of my eye I saw a few TV cameramen taking shots, and one was about ten feet away and just starting a sweep in our direction. Before I made Five O'Clock Live in my present condition, I stepped into the back of the ambulance.

I even got a ride in a wheelchair once we arrived at Arlington General and was hustled toward the operating room. A pair of young docs had a field day, digging shards of gla.s.s out of my skin and st.i.tching me up. One even offered me the fragments, suggesting they would make a very memorable stained-gla.s.s mosaic. Another noted the scars from my old war wounds and remarked upon what a terrifically popular person I must be. They were very funny Seriously.

I swallowed three aspirins, and one of the docs told me to wait thirty minutes for observation, in the event I had a sudden attack of common sense, unlikely as that might be. I was given a set of genuine surgeon's scrubs to wear, which was pretty cool. I was a.s.sured it would be on my bill of course.

I was allowed to walk on my own out to the waiting room, and I found a chair off in the corner, where, for the first time in two days, I was alone and could think.

Starting from when Jennie picked me up at the George Bush Center for Intelligence, the past forty-eight hours had been like some Hollywood action movie at 78 rpm, a blur of gore, emotional chaos, and frantic confusion. I had seen enough death and misery for a lifetime, and those images were imprinted on my brain. I had set up four people to die, and I had a few misgivings about that. I had a lot to contemplate.

But there happened to be a TV perched on a nearby wall bracket, the evening news was on, and the shootout was the story of the hour, the day, and probably the month. I leaned back into my chair, put my feet up, and started watching, when a voice inside my head screamed, Hey idiot, you haven't slept in two days.

Then somebody was shaking my shoulder, asking, "Heyyou all right?"

I saw Agent Rita Sanchez, holding two steaming cups of coffee, bless her heart. I had not a clue how long I had slept, nor was there a way to tell. In hospitals there is no day and no night.

Rita fell into the seat beside me. She handed me a cup, and I took a long sip. She informed me, "Jennie said you might need a ride home. She's real busy right now."

"I'll bet."

"How you doing?"

I could answer that two wayshonestly or not. So I lied. "Fine. Glad it's over, glad the good guys won . . ."

She smiled knowingly "You got postpartem blues. All that adrenaline gets pumped into you, then it just goes, like a petered-out balloon. I see it all the time."

"You don't see it this time."

"I think I do."

"I think you don't. The knights slew the dragons, I'm glad."

"Sure you are." After a moment she added, "We're gonna need a statement. You're the only person who actually spent time with these people."

"The only one who survived."

"Same thing."

"No, it's not the same thing."

Rita detected that I was in a queer mood and decided not to press it. Changing the subject, she said, "They put up a h.e.l.l of a battle at the end. The HRT guys said they fought like wildcats. The woman went down last. She ran out of the bedroom spraying her M16"

"In fact, I was wondering about that."

"About what?"

I looked Rita in the eyes. "Correct me if I'm wrong. It was my impression that the proper procedure in hostage rescue situations is to first warn the suspects they are surrounded, then offer to negotiate, and only if that fails . . . then a.s.sault by force."

"There are times when we do it that way."

"Why wasn't it done that way this time?"

"Tactical judgment."

"I see. Well. . . what made this a.s.sault so different that it was decided to deviate from procedure?"

She matter-of-factly replied, "We have a standard template for making these calls. a.s.sessment of the criminal mindset, prior experience with the perps, an evaluation of risk regarding our hostageall these factors are carefully weighed and considered. That last point is always preeminent. The hostage is always our priority."

I think she knew where I was going with this, and I don't think she liked it. I informed her, "I can see where an undeclared a.s.sault might be justified, but here's where I get confused. The Hostage Rescue Team managed to physically separate the hostage from the kidnappers. The Texans left me and Barnes behind and fled to the bedrooms. Yet the a.s.sault continued unabated. Why?"

After a moment, Rita said, "I make it a practice to never second-guess the decision of the team leader in contact. You should do the same. Those people saved your a.s.s."

"And I'm not ungrateful. But you see, Rita, I was surprised when the team rushed right past me. n.o.body paused to check on me, untie me, or even evacuate me. Jason Barnes was equally ignored."

She sort of shrugged. "I'm sure the team felt you were safe and the prisoner was secured. As I said, hostage safety is priority number one, followed by apprehension of the suspects."

"What were the team's orders?"

"What I stated. Secure the hostage, neutralize, then apprehend the suspects."

"Their rules of engagement?"

"Use reasonable force. But this was an extremis situation, obviously. The killers were heavily armed, and I shouldn't have to remind you of all people, they were vicious murderers. If you're implying we sent that team in to a.s.sa.s.sinate those people, you're wrong."

"Good." I examined Rita's face. "I'd really be bothered to learn the team was sent in on a mission of vengeance."

She did not reply to that point.

I continued, "Joan Townsend's death doesn't sit well with me. I'm sure it sat even less well with the men and women of the Bureau. I believe down to my soul that Hank, MaryLou, and Clyde deserved to die. But they deserved to end their lives on an electric chair after attempting to lie their way out of it, the G.o.d-given right of every American." I paused for emphasis and added, "I would not like to believe I was no better than Jason Barnes, that I was part of a vendetta."

She turned and looked at the far wall for a moment. Eventually she said, "Well, s.h.i.t happens. You know what they say."

"No, Rita, what do they say?"

"Live by the sword, die by the sword."

After a moment I asked, "Is Jennie's a.s.s hanging out?"

"Not at all. She made a procedural error, running in there that way. But she put only herself at risk. The Bureau makes allowances for these things."

This was news to me.

Rita continued, "She swore an oath to a volunteer hostage and risked her life to honor it. Actually, she's a big hero now. She saved your a.s.s, and our bacon. The Bureau don't forget those things."

"What about shooting Jason?"