“Why with you?”

“Because they know I won’t do anything to endanger Jane. I’ll pull no tricks, bring in no booby traps. It’ll just be me, playing by their rules.”

“It’s too late, Dean,” said Stillman. “We’re not running this show anymore. They’ve already got their entry team in place.”

“What team?”

“The feds flew them in from Washington. It’s some crack antiterrorist unit.”

This was exactly what Senator Conway had told Gabriel was about to happen. The time for negotiations had clearly passed.

“Boston PD’s been ordered to stay on the sidelines,” said Hayder. “Our job’s just to keep the perimeters secure, while they go in.”

“When is this supposed to go down?”

“We have no idea. They’re calling the shots.”

“What about that deal you made with Joe? The cameraman, the reporter? He still thinks it’s going to happen.”

“It’s not.”

“Who called it off?”

“The feds did. We just haven’t told Joe yet.”

“He’s already agreed to release two hostages.”

“And we’re still hoping he does. That’s at least two lives we can save.”

“If you don’t hold up your end of the bargain-if you don’t send in Peter Lukas-there are four hostages in there you’re not going to save.”

“By then, I hope the entry team will be in.”

Gabriel stared at him. “Do you want a massacre? Because you’re going to get one! You’re giving two paranoid people every reason to think their delusion is real. That you are out to kill them. Hell, maybe they’re right!”

“Now you’re the one who’s sounding paranoid.”

“I think I’m the only one who’s making sense.” Gabriel turned and walked out of the trailer.

He heard the negotiator call out after him: “Agent Dean?”

Gabriel kept walking, toward the police line.

“Dean!” At last Stillman caught up with him. “I just want you to know, I didn’t agree to any assault plan. You’re right, it’s just asking for bloodshed.”

“Then why the hell are you allowing it?”

“As if I can stop it? Or Hayder? This is now Washington ’s call. We’re supposed to stand back and let them take it from here.”

They heard it then-the sudden buzz through the crowd. The throng of reporters tightened, surged forward.

What is happening?

They heard a shout, saw the lobby doors swing open, and a tall African-American man in an orderly’s uniform stepped out, escorted by two Tactical Ops officers. He paused, eyes blinking in the glare of dozens of klieg lights, then he was hurried off toward a waiting vehicle. Seconds later, a man in a wheelchair emerged, pushed by a Boston PD cop.

“They did it,” Stillman murmured. “They released two people.”

But not Jane. Jane’s still in there. And the assault could start any minute.

He pushed toward the police line.

“Dean,” said Stillman, grabbing his arm.

Gabriel turned to look at him. “This could all end without a single bullet being fired. Let me go in. Let me talk to them.”

“The feds will never clear it.”

“Boston PD controls the perimeter. Order your men to let me through.”

“It could be a death trap.”

“My wife is in there.” His gaze locked with Stillman’s. “You know I have to do this. You know this is the best chance she’ll have. The best chance any of them will have.”

Stillman released a breath. Wearily he nodded. “Good luck.”

Gabriel ducked under the police tape. A Boston Tac-Ops officer moved to intercept him.

“Let him pass,” said Stillman. “He’s going into the building.”

“Sir?”

“Agent Dean is our new negotiator.”

Gabriel gave Stillman a nod of thanks. Then he turned and started walking toward the lobby doors.

Mila

Neither Olena nor I know where we are going.

We have never walked through these woods, and we don’t know where we will emerge. I wear no stockings, and the cold quickly penetrates my thin shoes. Despite the Mother’s sweater and turtleneck, I am chilled and shivering. The lights of the house have receded behind us, and glancing back, I see only the darkness of woods. On numb feet, I trudge across frozen leaves, keeping my focus on the silhouette of Olena, who walks ahead of me, carrying the tote bag. My breath is like smoke. Ice crackles beneath our shoes. I think of a war movie I once saw in school, of cold and starving German soldiers staggering through the snow to their doom on the Russian front. Don’t stop. Don’t question. Just keep marching was what those desperate soldiers must have been thinking. It’s what I’m thinking now as I stumble through the woods.

Ahead of us, a light suddenly twinkles.

Olena halts, holding up her arm to make me stop. We stand as still as the trees, watching as the lights move past, and we hear the whoosh of tires on wet pavement. We push through the last tangle of brush, and our feet hit blacktop.

We have reached a road.

By now my feet are so senseless from the cold that I am clumsy and floundering as I try to keep up with her. Olena is like a robot, trudging steadily forward. We begin to see houses, but she doesn’t stop. She is the general, and I’m just the dumb foot soldier, following a woman who knows no more than I do.

“We can’t walk forever,” I tell her.

“We can’t stay here, either.”

“Look, that house has its lights on. We could ask for help.”

“Not now.”

“How long are we supposed to keep walking? All night, all week?”

“As long as we need to.”

“Do you even know where we’re going?”

She suddenly turns, the rage so apparent on her face that I freeze. “You know what? I’m sick of you! You’re nothing but a baby. A stupid, scared rabbit.”

“I just want to know where we’re going.”

“All you ever do is whine and complain! Well, I’ve had enough. I’m done with you.” She reaches into the tote bag and pulls out the bundle of American money. She breaks the rubber band and thrusts half the cash at me. “Here, take it and get out of my sight. If you’re so smart, go your own way.”

“Why are you doing this?” I feel hot tears in my eyes. Not because I’m afraid, but because she is my only friend. And I know that I am losing her.

“You’re a drag on me, Mila. You’ll slow me down. I don’t want to have to watch out for you all the time. I’m not your fucking mother!”

“I never wanted you to be.”

“Then why don’t you grow up?”

“And why don’t you stop being a bitch!”

The car takes us by surprise. We are so focused on each other that we do not notice its approach. Suddenly it rounds the curve, and the headlights trap us like doomed animals. Tires screech to a stop. It is an old car, and the engine makes knocking noises as it idles.

The driver sticks his head out the window. “You two ladies need help,” he says. It sounds more like a statement than a question, but then our situation is obvious. A freezing night. Two women stranded on a lonely road. Of course we need help.

I gape at him, silent. It is Olena who takes command, as she always does. In an instant she has transformed. Her walk, her voice, the provocative way she thrusts out her hip-this is Olena at her most seductive. She smiles and says, in throaty English: “Our car is dead. Can you drive us?”

The man studies her. Is he just being cautious? Somehow he realizes that something is very wrong here. I am on the edge of retreating back into the woods, before he can call the police.

When he finally answers, his voice is flat, revealing no hint that Olena’s charms have affected him. “There’s a service station up the road. I need to stop there for gas anyway. I’ll ask about a tow truck.”

We climb into the car. Olena sits in the front seat, I huddle in the back. I have stuffed the money she gave me into my pocket, and now it feels like a glowing lump of coal. I am still angry, still wounded by her cruelty. With this money, I can manage without her, without anyone. And I will.