"No weapons in their hands but they're wearing bulky shirts. Could be hidden."
Injured but extent unknown.
Potter said to D'Angelo, "They had tools. Might've brought tape with them too and taped weapons under their shirts."
The HRT commander nodded.
Blood everywhere…
Sharon Foster joined the men on the hillock. She'd put on bulky body armor.
How was this going to end? Potter wondered. He listened to the mournful sound of the wind. He felt a desperate urge to talk to Handy once more. Pressed the speed-dial button on the phone he carried.
A dozen rings, two dozen. No answer.
D'Angelo and LeBow were looking at him. He hung up.
Inside the slaughterhouse, the lights went out. Budd stiffened; Potter motioned him to relax. HTs often doused lights upon leaving, afraid to present a silhouette target even though they were giving up.
The crescent moon had moved fifty degrees through the windy sky. Often there's a sense of familiarity, even a perverse comfort, that a negotiator finds in the setting in which he's spent hours or days. Tonight, though, as he gazed at the black and red brick, all Potter could think of was Handy's phrase "Cold death."
The door opened slowly, stuck halfway, then opened further.
No movement.
What will it be? he wondered. Good or bad? Peaceful or violent?
Ah, my beautiful Ostrella.
During surrenders, he'd seen it alclass="underline" Terrorists falling to the ground, crying like babies. Unarmed criminals streaking for freedom. Hidden guns. The young Syrian woman who walked slowly from an Israeli consulate, arms properly outstretched, and smiled sweetly at him just before the grenades in her bra blew herself and three HRT agents to pieces.
Be forewarned.
For only the third or fourth time in his career Arthur Potter lifted his weapon from his belt holster, high on his padded hip, and awkwardly pulled the automatic's slide, chambering a round. He replaced the gun, not clicking on the safety.
"Why isn't anything happening?" Budd whispered in irritation.
Potter stifled a sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh hysterically.
"Art?" Handy's voice floated from inside the slaughterhouse, a soft, ragged sound on the wind.
"Yes?" Potter called through the megaphone.
"Where the fuck are you? I don't see you."
Potter looked at Budd. "Here's where I earn my paycheck." He rose unsteadily, polished his glasses on the lapel of his sports coat. Sharon Foster asked if he was sure he wanted to do this. He glanced at her then walked awkwardly down the hill and stepped over an ancient split-rail fence. He paused about thirty yards from the front of the slaughterhouse.
"Here I am, Lou. Come on out."
And there they were.
Handy first. Then Wilcox.
The first thing he noticed was that their arms were at the backs of their heads.
It's all right, Ostrella. Come out however you want. Come home. You'll be okay.
"Lou, stretch your arms out!"
"Hey, take it easy, Art," Handy called. "Don't give yourself a fucking heart attack." Blinking against the powerful glare of the blinding lights. Amused, looking around.
"Lou, you've got a dozen snipers aiming at you -"
"Just a dozen? Shit! Thought I was worth more than that."
"Put your arms out or they'll shoot."
Handy stopped walking. Looked over at Wilcox. They broke into smiles.
Potter's hand went to the butt of his pistol.
Slowly the prisoners' arms extended.
"I look like a fucking ballerina, Art."
"You're doing fine, Lou."
"Easy for you to say."
Potter called, "Move in separate directions about ten feet, then lie facedown on the ground."
They walked away from the slaughterhouse, farther than ordered but then dropped to their knees and went prone. The two HRT agents by the door kept their H amp;Ks trained on the fugitives' backs and stayed clear of the doorway just in case Bonner wasn't in fact dead or there'd been other takers inside that even the hostages hadn't known about.
The two agents hovering by the windows climbed inside, followed by two more, who ran from the shadows and sped through the door. The beams of the powerful flashlights attached to their guns whipped throughout the slaughterhouse.
They'd been briefed about the incendiary device Handy'd rigged and they'd be moving very slowly, looking for tripwires. Potter believed he'd never been so anxious in his life. He expected the interior of the slaughterhouse to blossom into orange flame at any instant.
Outside, two more HRT agents had moved up, covering the two beside the door, who now advanced on Handy and Wilcox.
Did the men have armed grenades on them?
Hidden knives?
It wasn't until they'd been cuffed and patted down that Arthur Potter realized the barricade was over. He'd escaped, alive and unhurt.
And had once again read Handy wrong.
Potter returned to Budd, D'Angelo, and Foster. Told the HRT commander to radio the agents taking the two convicts into custody with orders on how to handle them. Potter remembered that Wilcox was the cowboy in the group, more impulsive than the others. He'd ordered him shackled around the waist as well as cuffed but told them not to do so with Handy. Potter knew Lou would be more willing to cooperate if he retained at least a little control.
Other agents appeared silently and covered the two men. They pulled them to their feet and frisked them again, more carefully, then quickly led them into a gully and hurried them away from the slaughterhouse.
Then the lights went on inside.
A long, long moment of silence, though it was probably just seconds.
Where is she?
"Go ahead," D'Angelo said into his mike. He listened for a minute then said to Potter, "It's secure. No other takers. No traps. There was something rigged in the room but it's been dismantled."
The others rose to their feet too and watched Handy's progress as he approached up the gully.
"And the hostages?" Potter asked urgently.
D'Angelo listened. He said aloud, "Bonner's dead."
Yes, yes, yes?
"And they found two female hostages. One, white, late thirties. Conscious but incoherent."
For chrissake, what about -
"Second one, white, age mid-twenties. Also conscious." D'Angelo winced. "Seriously hurt, he says."
No. Oh, my God.
"What?" Potter cried. "What happened to her?" The negotiator lifted his own radio and cut into the channel. "How is she? The younger woman?"
The HRT agent inside said, "Handy must've really done a number on her, sir."
"How bad?" Potter said furiously. Budd and D'Angelo stared at him. Handy was approaching, two agents on either side. Potter found he couldn't look at him.
The agent inside said into the radio, "Well, sir, she doesn't look that badly hurt but the thing is he must've beat the hell out of her. She can't hear a word we're saying."
The surrender had happened so fast he'd forgotten to tell the tactical agents Melanie was deaf.
D'Angelo said something to him and so did Charlie Budd but Potter didn't hear, so loud was his manic, hysterical laughter. Sharon Foster and nearby troopers looked at him uneasily. Potter supposed, without caring, that he sounded like the crazy old man that he was.
"Lou."
"Art, you don't look nothing like what I thought. You do have to lose a few pounds."
Handy stood behind the van, hands cuffed behind him. Sharon Foster was nearby, looking over the prisoners. When Handy glanced at her body, grinning, she stared back contemptuously. Potter knew that after a hard negotiation, particularly one in which there'd been a killing, you felt an urge to insult or belittle your enemy. Potter controlled it himself but she was younger and more emotional. She sneered at Handy, walked away. The convict laughed and turned back to Potter.
"Your picture doesn't do you justice," the negotiator said to him.
"Fuckers never do."