Truman wondered if they were wasting time.

“This is Commander Pete Hodges,” came a polite, low voice over the speaker. “What can I do for you?”

Everyone in the RV jerked to attention. The other two negotiators shoved their food aside and grabbed headsets. Jeff jumped to his feet from his perch on a countertop and quietly radioed for Ghattas to report to the RV. Truman froze, every nerve focused on the voice filling the command center from the speakers. He’d expected the agents to hear Hodges only through the headsets.

“Good afternoon, Commander,” Sanchez answered pleasantly. “We’d like to discuss the children who are living in your compound. It’s come to our attention that one of them was very ill when he arrived at the hospital recently.”

“Why is the ATF involved in personal matters?” The tone was still polite.

“Medical professionals are required to report when they feel a child’s health is in danger. After interviewing the boy and his father, we’re concerned for the health and safety of the other children.”

“That doesn’t answer my question about the ATF.”

Truman tensed.

“You’re right,” Sanchez said smoothly. “The local authorities were concerned about being able to reach you. As you know by the radio in your hand, we have the equipment necessary to conduct a conversation and keep a respectful distance.”

“I don’t believe for a second that the ATF is only here because they have access to radios.”

“That is correct,” said Sanchez. “We were already looking into a few reports of illegal weapons being sold in the area. But the safety of children will always take priority over a few sales.”

“Have a good day, Agent Stapleton.”

“Commander Hodges?”

Silence.

“Commander Hodges?”

Truman held his breath.

Agent Sanchez removed his headphones. “I’d say that was a successful first contact.” The other negotiators nodded enthusiastically. The three of them put their heads together and started an intense discussion about the content of the call.

Truman looked to Jeff. “That was a success?”

“He didn’t threaten anyone, and he was polite. Baby steps.”

“He also didn’t mention the FBI or Mercy,” Truman pointed out.

“Another good thing. We want him to believe only the ATF is here. If he brings her up, we can inform him of an FBI presence.”

If he brings her up, does it mean she’s already dead?

Foreboding raced through his blood, making him struggle to hold still. This could take days.

Ghattas darted up the steps and into the RV, panting for breath. ATF agents Carleen Aguirre and Neal Gorman were directly behind him, concern on their faces.

“Call’s over,” Jeff informed them.

“Shit. How’d it go?” asked Ghattas.

“Very good,” Sanchez said over his shoulder. “We’ll continue to call every half hour.” He returned to his three-man huddle, peering at the notes of the other men.

“Pete Hodges didn’t mention the FBI,” Jeff told the three agents. “He wanted to know why the ATF was here. Sanchez emphasized concern for the children inside and casually mentioned the gun sales, then Hodges politely ended the communication.”

“Sounds like an excellent start.” Carleen nodded with enthusiasm.

Truman steamed, his chest swelling. Jeff did a double take at his face and excused the two of them, dragging Truman outside. He hauled him several yards away from the RV.

“You need to find some patience,” Jeff said, his face close, his grip on Truman’s upper arm. “I get it, Truman. I really do. But you’re going to get your ass sent home if you’re a distraction.” Jeff’s own concern for Mercy flashed before he packed it back in the box of emotions that every law enforcement officer tried to keep under lock and key.

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.”