Truman yanked his arm free but didn’t speak. If he voiced the clutter of rage and fear spinning in his brain, they’d banish him from the RV. He was lucky to have witnessed what he had; he wouldn’t get a second chance if he was a liability. “I know,” he said between clenched teeth as politely as he could.
“That call shows Hodges is curious,” Jeff told him. “He wants to know what is going on. He’ll want more information—there will be another call.”
Truman saw his logic.
Everything is taking too long.
“Go cool off. Tromp around in the woods for a bit and come back in a half hour. You shouldn’t be in the RV, but as long as they let me in, I’ll try to bring you with me.” Jeff pointed at him. “As long as you don’t do something stupid.”
“Thank you,” Truman muttered. He turned and blindly strode toward trees, the falling snow brushing across his face.
***
Truman wasn’t the only one pacing in the woods.
After a minute’s walk deep into the trees, he encountered an FBI agent pacing in snowy circles, stretching his arms behind his back and muttering a mantra. He wore the olive-and-black gear of the HRT members. Truman had watched the team’s men check their huge bags of equipment. Ballistic vests, helmets, neck covers, eye protection, cameras, grenades, flashbangs, custom-made weapons.
Each man seemed to have over sixty pounds of equipment to carry on his body. Maybe more.
The agent spotted him and halted, recognition showing in his eyes. He was of medium height and wiry, with close-cut sandy-blond hair. Truman didn’t remember his name—he’d been introduced to too many people.
The agent held out his hand as Truman approached. “Theo Cook. You’re the police chief.” Age lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. His face was well weathered. This wasn’t some fresh-faced gym rat rookie; he was an experienced agent.
Truman shook it. “Truman Daly. Don’t let me interrupt you.”
“You’re not. I’m just clearing my brain and sucking in a little of this amazingly crisp air. My team has spent hours poring over intel on the compound and running scenarios. We needed a short break before we dive back into it.”
“What if your team is needed for a different emergency before you’re done here?”
“There’s a second team back home. We’re always ready to go when called upon.”
Truman studied the man. He and Mercy had talked in the past about the HRT. No woman had ever qualified for the team; all had been unable to pass the brutal physical tests. He’d heard the members called modern-day warriors, trained to strike. They were fast, violent, and deadly.
“You’re staring,” Cook said, pinning Truman with his gaze.
“Sorry. I was wondering what your job is like.”
Cook shrugged and relaxed. “There is nothing else like it. Well—Delta or Team Six would disagree with that statement.”
Truman nodded. The Army and Navy Special Missions Units were also elite professionals. “What’s your position?”
“I’m part of the assault team. Not a sniper.”
Cook would be on the front lines if they invaded the compound.
“Our snipers are currently doing recon,” Cook said. “We have three in positions around the compound. They’ve been feeding us intel since the middle of the night. Their scopes are good for more than lining up their shots.”
Truman froze. “Have they seen the FBI agent?”
“No. They’ve seen women, but none of them are Special Agent Kilpatrick.”
That wasn’t the answer Truman had wanted to hear.
“What else have they seen?”
Cook pressed his lips together, and Truman knew the agent regretted sharing as much information as he had.
“Never mind,” Truman told him. A craving for information about the compound was gnawing away at his gut, but he didn’t want to press the agent. It wasn’t his place.
But he wasn’t ready to let Cook go yet. “How do you handle it?” Truman asked, scrambling for a question that didn’t apply directly to the mission.
“Handle what?”
“You go directly into the hot zone for your job. It’s not a question of if you’ll be shot at, but when you’ll be shot at. How does fear not affect you?”
Understanding crossed Cook’s face. “Fear isn’t a bad thing. It can be good. I don’t experience a scared type of fear.” He hesitated, twisting his mouth as he tried to find the right words. “It’s a fear that gives me more respect for things. It keeps me on my toes.”
Truman was skeptical.
“The only person who should have fear is the guy on the other side of the wall when we come in.”
“You walk right into gunfire.” Truman knew he was repeating himself, but he still couldn’t comprehend the mind-set needed for Cook’s job.
“Sometimes. As long as it doesn’t hit me, I’m okay.” Cook was completely serious.
Jesus.
“We train,” Cook continued. “We know how to analyze a situation and go hard. You aren’t on this team if you can’t make a split-second decision under pressure. When all else has failed, our job is to be the professionals that get it done.”
Calm, cool, and collected. Gratitude and awe filled Truman. Cook was the type of person who could get Mercy out of the compound. “Thank you,” he told the agent, offering to shake his hand again. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Cook quirked a brow as he took the hand. “It’s my job,” he said simply. “But you’re welcome.” He gave a brief nod and walked off, again stretching his arms behind his back, working them in circles.
Truman knew Cook wasn’t unique. All the members of his team were just as driven and committed.
For the first time, Truman felt a glimmer of hope.
TWENTY-FIVE
The day dragged, and Truman struggled to stay patient.
He tried to make himself useful, moving equipment, bracing tent poles, and even washing dishes, while sticking as close to the negotiators’ RV as possible. The storm had picked up, a heavy white fall that made the base camp feel more isolated than ever. The snow set Truman on edge.
It was a ticking clock.
What if Ghattas decided the snow would grow too deep to continue the operation? Every half hour, the negotiators had attempted to reach the compound. And every half hour they had been ignored.
“Maybe he got rid of the radio,” Truman suggested to Jeff when he came out of the RV after the fourth failed call.
“They’re weighing that possibility, but they’re convinced he’s playing a waiting game, trying to keep the upper hand by showing that he’ll answer on his own time.”
A pissing contest.
Truman went back to his odd jobs around the base camp.
At four o’clock Jeff stepped out of the RV and signaled Truman, who had been talking with a small group from the FBI’s SWAT team. Truman excused himself, his eyes fixed on Jeff as he strode over, his skin vibrating with the unknown.
Good news? Bad news?
“Hodges answered,” Jeff said quietly as he led Truman into the RV. Inside were the same three negotiators, SSA Bill Ghattas, Agents Aguirre and Gorman, and the SWAT team leader. Agent Sanchez was writing rapidly on a yellow legal pad as he focused on Hodges’s words. The tension in the RV was palpable, but Agent Sanchez’s voice was calm as he replied to Hodges.
“I don’t understand your benefit from such a request,” Sanchez said into his headset mic.