“I don’t think that’s wise,” Major Mike Morelli said as two uniforms buckled his bulletproof vest and wired him for sound. “That’s a dangerous man in there.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Sergeant Hoppes shot back. “We’re talking about a nutcase holed up in a fast-food restaurant holding twenty people at gunpoint.”

“What I’m saying is, we have to be careful. When the SOT boys show up, keep them out of sight. Behind the perimeter.”

“And what I’m saying is, let’s get them right up in the creep’s face. Give him something to worry about.”

“He’s already on the brink. And he has hostages!”

“All the more reason. We’ll show him who’s boss. Show him how quickly he’ll be dead if he tries anything. He’ll back down.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he wants to die. Maybe he’ll shoot everyone in sight.”

“Sorry, Mike, but I disagree. We do it my way.”

Mike grabbed his arm. “Excuse me? You’re overruling me?”

“I’m the SOT team leader, Mike. This is my field of expertise.”

“Nonetheless-”

“Mike, you’re a homicide detective.”

“I don’t care if I’m the goddamn county dogcatcher. I’m a major, you’re a sergeant. And that means I call the shots!”

Hoppes’s eyes burned like fire. A million retorts must’ve run through his brain, but in the end, he kept his cool. “You’re only here by accident, Mike.”

“Consider yourself relieved, Tom.”

Hoppes’s lips tightened.

“You’ll be my number two. But I’m in charge.”

Hoppes bit back whatever he was thinking. “As you say, Major. We’ll be in position behind the perimeter. Just in case you need us.”

Mike watched Hoppes back off, his fists tightly clenched. There’d be hell to pay when they all got back to headquarters. But he had to do what he thought best. Hoppes was a superb marksman, and he knew SOT maneuvers better than anyone on earth. But his understanding of human nature was much less sure. And as a tactician, he sucked.

Not that that meant Mike had to take over. When would he learn to stop thrusting himself into these situations? He was too old and too smart to keep volunteering for trouble. But he happened to be in the south Tulsa neighborhood, on his way back from interviewing a potential witness, when the call came in about the hostage situation at the local Burger Bliss. And so he sped to it and offered Hoppes his assistance. And one thing led to another…

He made his way to the front lines, where Hoppes had been broadcasting through an electronic bullhorn, trying to persuade the man inside to give himself up, without luck. He took the bullhorn.

“Listen to me.” Mike was startled to hear the electronics give his voice a mechanical, almost eerie, tone. Small wonder no one ever responded well to it. “My name is Mike Morelli. I’m a policeman. I want to negotiate with you. I assume there must be something you want or you wouldn’t be doing this. Tell me what it is, and I’ll do everything I can to make it happen. All I ask is that you don’t hurt anyone. If you don’t hurt anyone, no one will hurt you. You have my word on that. May I come in?”

Mike lowered the bullhorn and waited. And waited. Had the wild man with the gun agreed? Had he even heard?

Mike heard a groan of disgust from Hoppes. He tried again. “I am not armed. No gun, no knife, no nothing. You have my word. I’ll come in naked, if it will make you more comfortable. I will not harm you. I just want to talk. May I come in? Please?” He waited another few seconds. No response. “Please.”

A moment later, the side entrance to the Burger Bliss opened. An elderly woman who appeared to be absolutely terrified pushed her head through the door. “He says you can come in.”

It worked! He was halfway home.

Now all he had to do was get those people out of there safely, Mike told himself. And not get killed in the process.

He slowly approached the side door, talking quietly into the microphone buried under his bulletproof vest.

“I’m going inside. When the SOT team arrives, put them into position, but keep them out of sight. I don’t want to agitate the gunman.”

“Yes sir, Major,” Hoppes snapped back.

Mike kept moving. “There doesn’t seem to be any resistance. Maybe he’s ready to give up.”

Hoppes’s voice crackled in Mike’s earpiece. “Maybe he’s going to shoot your sorry butt the second you come through the door.”

A cheery thought. Mike heard a squeal of Jeep tires somewhere behind him. The SOT team had arrived, no doubt. In a few minutes, they would be armed with sniper rifles and waiting for a clear shot. If he was going to end this mess without bloodshed, he was going to have to move quickly.

Inside, the decor and layout looked pretty much like any other fast-food restaurant, with the standard bright plastic tabletops and the efficient order counter McDonald’s had pioneered years ago. Most of the hostages sat at the tables, but a few of the employees were still behind the counter. As a whole, the hostages were staying admirably calm. A few were crying, trembling, worried that this inexpensive meal would be their last. The kids were the worst. Some of them were toddlers. They couldn’t possibly comprehend what was happening or why. They just knew there was a man with a gun. And they were terrified.

He heard Hoppes barking in his ear. “Can you see him? Are you in a position to shoot him?”

“No,” Mike murmured. “I don’t have a weapon.”

“You-what? Why in hell not?”

“Because I gave him my word.”

The man with the gun had barricaded himself between two large trash receptacles. His gun was out and his hand was shaking. He was a thin, long-haired man. Couldn’t be more than twenty. He was wearing a solid black T-shirt and had a few scruffy hairs on his chin passing for a goatee. He was drenched in sweat. His eyes were red and worried; they never seemed to stay in one place for more than a second.

“My name’s Mike.” He kept a good ten feet away. “What’s yours?”

The young man whipped around, pointing his gun in Mike’s direction. “Why do you want to know my name?”

Mike tried to keep his voice even. This guy was worse than on edge. He was already in the midst of a major meltdown. “No reason. Just so I know what to call you.”

“You don’t need to know my name!”

“All right. Then I’ll just make one up. How about… Elmer?”

“That’s a stupid name!” the kid shouted, waving his gun around. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Of course not. How about… Bob?”

The young man inhaled deep and long, like a diver with a bad case of the bends. “I can live with that.”

Great. They’d made progress. “What is it you want, Bob?”

“I want my goddamn job back, that’s what I want.”

Mike’s lips parted. “You used to work here?”

“Damn straight. For almost two years. Till that son-of-a-bitch manager fired me. He said I was screwing around, not getting my work done. Made other people carry the slack. But he was full of it!” Watching the gun bob and weave in all directions made Mike sick, but there was nothing he could do about it at present. “I worked hard. Every day, hard. Not like some manager who sits on his fat ass and watches other people work. I didn’t deserve to lose my job. And I want it back!”

And you thought the smart way to get it would be to run in with a gun and take hostages? Was he utterly insane? Or was Mike’s friend Ben’s theory right-that people of the modern world suffer from a societal illness more endemic than the Black Plague. Terminal stupidity.

“So, Bob… if I was able to get your job back, would you stand down? Let these nice people go?”

“Why should I?”

“Well… they didn’t take your job. You have no grudge against them. Why don’t we let some of them go. Like maybe the children?” Out the corner of his eye, through the windows that surrounded the restaurant on three sides, Mike spotted the SOT snipers positioning themselves. Damn Hoppes, anyway! Why didn’t he keep them out of sight? Those rifles had a thousand-foot range. Why did they have to get right under the man’s nose?