"Where the hell is she going?" he said, surprised. There weren't supposed to be any surprises on this job. The Mastermind had supposedly scoped everything out perfectly. This wasn't perfection. Mr. Blue started to walk fast through the tangle of woods and high weeds separating him from the Casselman house. He could already see that he wasn't going to make it in time.

Mistake.

Mine, or hers?

Both of ours! She's leaving too early this morning; I'm out of position!

He began to run toward Hawthorne Street, but she was already inside her black Toyota Tercel and backing out of the driveway. If she turned right, everything was completely screwed. If she turned left, he still had a chance to save the day. C'mon, Farrah honey, go left!

Mr. Blue was trying to think of something to shout to her -something that would stop her cold. What, though? Think. Think.

Good girl! She had turned left, but he still didn't think he could get to the freaking road in time to stop her.

He started to sprint, head down. He felt a burst of sudden, deep heat roaring through his chest. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had to run at full tilt like this.

"Hey! Hey! Can you help me!” he called at the top of his voice," Please help me! Help!"

Victoria Casselman's head of teased blonde hair turned when she heard the shouts coming on her street. She slowed the car a little, but she still didn't stop completely.

He had to stop her.

"My wife's having a baby!" Blue shouted. "Please help. My wife's having a baby."

He sighed with incredible relief when he saw the black sedan stop in the middle of the road. He hoped that no busybody neighbor was watching from one of the houses lined up and down the street. It didn't matter, though. He had to stop her one way or the other. He was still gasping as he ran up to the car.

"What's the matter with you? Where's your wife? "Victoria Casselman called to him through the open window.

Mr. Blue continued to wheeze until he was right up beside the car. Then he pulled out a Sig-Sauer pistol and whacked her jaw with the barrel. Victoria Casselman's head snapped to the side and she cried out in pain.

"We're going back to the house!" he shouted as he jumped into the car. He held the gun to her forehead.

"Where the hell were you going at seven-thirty? Oh just shut up. I

don't really care. You made a mistake, Victoria. You made a bad mistake." It was all Mr. Blue could do not to shoot her dead in the front seat of her car.

me;

A robbery was in progress at the Chase Manhattan Bank branch near the Omni Shoreham Hotel in Washington. Betsey Cavalierre and I didn't talk much on the ride from the FBI offices to the bank. We were both dreading what we might find.

Betsey was all business. She'd placed a siren on the roof of her car and we raced through Washington. It was raining again and streaks of water hammered the car's roof and windshield. The city of Washington was crying. This nightmare was deepening and seemed to be accelerating. It was as scary and unpredictable as any multiple-murder case I had worked before. It didn't make sense to me. A bank-robbing crew, or possibly a couple of crews, was operating like a gang of mass killers. The press coverage was massive and overwhelming; the public was terrified, and had a right to be; the banking industry was up in arms that the robberies and murders hadn't been stopped.

I was shaken from my reverie by the sound of police sirens wailing up ahead. The shrill chorus made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Then I saw the blue-and-white sign for the Chase Bank branch.

Betsey stopped about a block away on Twenty-eighth Street. It was as close as we could get. Even with the heavy rain, there were a hundred spectators, dozens of ambulances, police cruisers, even a fire truck had arrived on the scene.

We ran through the hissing downpour toward a modest, red brick building on the corner of Calvert. I was a few strides ahead of Betsey, but she was moving.

"Metro police. Detective Cross," I said and flashed my badge at a patrolman who tried to block the way into the bank parking lot. The patrolman saw the gold shield and stepped aside.

The assorted police and emergency sirens continued to wail loudly and I wondered why. The moment I walked inside the bank lobby, I knew. I counted five bodies. Tellers and executives: Three women, two men. All had been shot dead. It was another massacre, possibly the worst one so far.

"Why? Jesus!" Agent Cavalierre muttered at my side. For a second she grabbed on to my arm, but then realized what she had done and let go.

An FBI agent hurried up to us. His name was James Walsh and I remembered him from the first meeting at the field office. "Five are dead here. They're all on staff, bank employees."

"Hostages at home?" Betsey asked.

Walsh shook his head," The manager's wife is dead too. Shot at close range. Executed for no reason we can figure out… Betsey, they left a survivor at the bank. He has a message for you and Detective Cross. It's from someone called the Mastermind."

The survivor's name was Arthur Strickland, and he was being kept in the slain manager's office, as far away as possible from the press. He was the bank's security guard.

Strickland was a tall, slender, well-built man in his late forties. Although physically impressive, he looked to be in a state of shock. Beads of perspiration covered his face, his thick mustache. His light blue uniform shirt was entirely soaked through.

Betsey went up to the bank guard and spoke very softly, compassionately. "I'm Senior Agent Cavalierre from the FBI. I'm in charge of this investigation, Mr. Strickland. This is Detective Cross from the DC police. I hear that you have a message for us?"

The powerful-looking man suddenly broke down. He sobbed into his hands. It took him a minute or so before he pulled himself together and was able to talk.

"They were nice people that got killed here today. They were my friends, "he said," I was supposed to protect them, and our customers, of course."

"It's a terrible thing that happened, but it's not your fault," Betsey said to the guard. She tried to be kind, to calm him, and she was doing a good job. "Why did the gunmen kill them? Why not you?"

The guard shook his head in dismay," They held me in the lobby with the others. Two of'm did the job. All of us were told to stay face down on the floor. They said they had to be out the bank quarter past eight. No later than that. No mistakes, they said several times. No alarms. No panic buttons."