Terms Of Surrender. Kylie Brant

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СКАЧАТЬ up to see him in the doorway. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. There were only two SWAT/HNT squads in Metro City. And if she’d learned nothing else in her life, it was that fate was filled with the cruelest of ironies.

      “When I was placed back on HNT, I never dreamed I’d be partnered with you. I’d heard you quit the squad after…” Her voice faltered as his gaze sharpened. She didn’t want him to think she’d been checking up on him. But occasionally touching base with old friends on the force had invariably included department gossip.

      “After you left? Yeah, I quit the squad for a while. Rejoined last January.” He studied her a moment, an impassive expression on his face. “When did you come back? And why?”

      His words were sharp as a blade. He was equally adept at wielding them like a weapon, she recalled. Slicing through subterfuge and carving at defenses until emotion, raw and unvarnished, leaked out. Until she said things she wished she could retract. Did things she still regretted.

      “A month ago.” Answering the second half of his question would take more time than they had. And far more openness on her part than she’d ever granted before. Since he didn’t even know her mother existed, it’d be a little difficult to explain returning to Metro City to care for her.

      He gave her a humorless smile. “A month. Great.” He turned away abruptly to address the other team members who had gathered outside. And she was left with the crushing certainty that she’d added another royal screwup to the mess her life had always been. It was useless to wonder how to fix it. If she’d had any success in that area, she wouldn’t be here.

      So she did the one thing she could do. Focused on the only part of her life that was black-and-white. The only part she’d ever shown an ounce of aptitude for.

      She turned her focus to the SWAT incident report and began filling in the necessary information. Because every second she concentrated on the job was another second she didn’t have to think about the man beside her. Didn’t have to face the pain she’d caused him. The pain they’d caused each other.

      Minutes later the newcomers entered the NOC, each taking a place around the table, filling the cramped quarters.

      Dace made introductions. “Dr. Phil Ryder, our profiler.” A stocky man with a shiny balding pate gave her a nod. “Lance Sharper will be recorder and Herb Johnson tactical liaison.” He indicated each of the individuals in turn and inclined his head toward Jolie. “Jolie Conrad, new to the squad but not to HNT.”

      “Any problems with the throw phone?” Johnson wanted to know.

      “For once we actually had enough cord, believe it or not,” Dace replied. It was never a matter of if things went wrong on a SWAT response, it was a matter of when. There were invariably screwups, like equipment that didn’t work or throw phones that didn’t have long enough cords to reach the barricaded subject.

      While Dace brought the other members up-to-date, Jolie got up to maneuver around the table and jot notes on the white marker board that lined the walls of the unit. It would serve as their situation board, and as circumstances unfolded they would make copious notes of every communication with the hostage taker, as well as impressions formed during the conversations. It was crucial that every piece of information be documented to aid in drawing conclusions. The profiler would weigh the HT’s words carefully before rendering an impression about how best to approach the subject.

      The door opened and Lewis ducked his head to enter, a roll of papers under his arm. Flicking his gaze over the assembled group, he grunted. “Good. You’re all here.”

      The command center liaison sat in the empty chair and unrolled the plans on the table. The rest of the team members crowded around.

      “No basement,” Jolie observed. “One level simplifies things.”

      “If the squad has to infiltrate, yeah.” Dace’s voice was impersonal, as if their earlier exchange had never occurred. Jolie knew she could count on him to compartmentalize their past and focus on the task at hand. He could be as single-minded on the job as she.

      “But it’s also easier for the hostage taker to control the hostages,” Dr. Ryder pointed out. “Fewer places for them to scatter.”

      They examined the blueprints as a voice crackled in Johnson’s headset. The whipcord-thin black man listened for a moment before stating, “Intel reports no live subjects in sight at this time. The body looks like a security guard. The rest of the lobby floor is littered with clothes and shoes.”

      “How much?” Jolie put in, her mind racing.

      “Piles of them.”

      “He made them undress,” she said and saw Dace nod. “He’s been planning this for a while. Figured out the best way to control a group of people was to strip them, figuratively and literally, of all outer trappings of position.”

      “And keep them preoccupied with more basic issues than escape,” Ryder put in.

      If that were the strategy, it would be crudely effective. But, more important, it gave them critical details about the gunman they were dealing with. His choice of words, during the short time they’d had him on the phone, had depicted a man of some education. Unless he’d had a sexual motive for stripping his hostages—which Jolie doubted—they now knew the gunman had an underlying understanding of basic human nature and how to manipulate it.

      Which meant he might be smart enough to see through attempts to manipulate him, as well.

      Sharper traced the blueprint with a blunt-edged finger. “He’ll keep them all together. Only places available would be a restroom—tight fit for all those people—these two offices or the vault.” He reached up to wipe his broad forehead. The air-conditioning in the NOC unit was notoriously unreliable.

      Jolie studied the diagram more closely. The vault would be the obvious choice, since it would allow the greatest security, and give the HT a way to lock the hostages inside. But was there room? It was a sizable space, but she had to assume the money and bonds that a bank kept on hand would take up a great deal of that room.

      “Any hope for witness identification on the gunman?”

      Lewis shook his head in response to Dace’s question. “Not yet. The good news is that the security video streams to an outside company, so we should be able to clearly see all the customers and employees walking into the bank. Mendel is waiting for the feed now. He’s got it figured as a robbery gone bad.”

      It was the most obvious motivation, but Jolie had learned never to assume anything in these situations. It could just as easily be a disgruntled former employee. Or someone who’d been turned down for a loan, or one with any number of grudges against someone inside.

      Dr. Ryder turned to study the notes Jolie had jotted down. Dace got up to attach the blueprints to the situation board with magnets. The team debated the best approach to take in the next conversation.

      Several minutes later, they reached consensus. “Then we’re agreed,” Lewis said, sending a look around the table. “We play to the HT’s need for control while we work the exchange angle.”

      “You might want to see if he responds differently to Jolie,” Dr. Ryder suggested. “It’s early enough in the process that a rapport hasn’t been established yet. And if he’s as driven by control as we think, he may believe a female is easier to manage.”

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