Jachrimo had a white board up in front of him and was making a Gantt chart in the upper left-hand corner.

"Position?" the CO asked Bobby.

"Sniper." "Can you hold a perimeter?"

"Yes, sir."

"Great, great, great." Lieutenant Jachrimo broke away from the white board long enough to stick his head out of the van and yell at a Boston uniform, "Hey. Hey, you. I need the phone company. Understand? Use your radio, call in to dispatch and get the goddamn phone company, 'cause nothing in this van is working, and you can't really have a command post if it doesn't command. Got it?"

The uniform went flying, and Jachrimo returned his harried attention to Bobby.

"Okay, so what do you know?"

"Domestic barricade, male subject believed armed with a gun, wife and child also on the premises." Bobby repeated the message he'd received on his pager.

"Suspect's name is Jimmy Gagnon. Mean anything to you?"

Bobby shook his head.

"Just as well." Jachrimo finished his Gantt chart, then started an overhead sketch of the neighborhood on the lower part of the white board.

"So here's where we're at. Woman called nine-one-one shortly after eleven-thirty. Claimed to be Catherine Gagnon, Jimmy's wife. Said her husband was drunk and threatening her and their son with a handgun. The nine-one-one operator tried to hold her on the line, but there was some kind of disturbance and the call was disconnected. About sixty seconds later, nine-one-one received a call from a neighbor reporting sounds of gunfire.

"The call came into headquarters, but our guys are already out on a situation in Revere, so I kicked it to Framingham Communications, who contacted your lieutenant. Your unit's serving as the primary, maybe for the whole show, maybe until our guys wrap up the party in Revere. Don't know. As of this moment, we have uniforms securing the external perimeter. There are men posted, here, here, and here, and cars positioned here and here to block off the connecting streets." Jachrimo made a series of Xs on his sketch, and that quickly, one block of brownstones was cordoned off from the surrounding neighborhood.

"The Gagnons occupy the top four levels of unit number four-fifteen. Uniforms have already evacuated the residents below their unit, as well as the residents of the brownstones on either side. We haven't had contact with anyone inside the residence yet, which, frankly, doesn't make me happy. As far as I'm concerned, we should've had the inner perimeter secured ten minutes ago and the hostage negotiators here eight minutes ago. But hey, that's just me."

"Manpower?"

"Troopers Fusilli, Adams, and Maroni are already on-scene. They're scoping the building now, looking to form a very tight perimeter, probably inside the building. I got one officer tracking down blueprints and another-hopefully-getting me the goddamn phone company."

"Intel from the neighbors?"

"According to the first-floor unit owner, the Gagnons did significant work on the place in the past five years. The top level of the brownstone was converted into cathedral ceilings for the fourth floor, where they apparently have one helluva master bedroom, with a walk-out balcony. Level one contains a small, one-bedroom unit, in addition to the lobby, which features an elevator that goes up to the second floor and the entrance to the Gagnon residence, as well as a staircase which reaches every level of the townhouse. The basement has been finished into a two-bedroom unit. We evacuated the couple that lives there and they told us exactly nothing; they have no idea about crawl spaces in the building, fire escapes, nada. It's an old building, though, so there's bound to be a few surprises.

"It would seem that the Gagnons keep to themselves, and whatever parties they've had, they haven't invited their neighbors. Couple has a reputation for its fights and we've been called out before for domestic disputes. First time there's been mention of a gun, though, so that's a fresh kick in the pants. Is it her? Is it him? Hell if I know. Mostly, it just sucks for the kid. So that's where we are and that's what we got."

The lieutenant's spiel ground to a halt just in time. Phone company had arrived. Another one of Bobby's teammates as well.

"Perfect," the lieutenant declared. He stabbed one finger at the new trooper.

"You, inner perimeter. And you," the finger moved to Bobby.

"Find a position. I want intel on that house. Where's the husband, where's the wife, where's the kid? And better yet, is anyone still alive? Because it's been over thirty minutes now, and we haven't heard a thing." stepping out of the command center, Bobby picked up his pace. Now charged with a task, he had choices to make. He ran through them quickly.

First off, proper gear. He went with city camo, a battle dress uniform blended with shades of gray. Solid black provided too much of a silhouette. Camo blends, on the other hand, gave the eye a sense of depth, allowing the wearer to sink into the surrounding environment.

Over the top of his BDUs came soft body armor. The rest of his team would be wearing Kevlar with boron plates, but that kind of heavy body armor was too cumbersome for sniping. Bobby needed to be able to move quickly, while also maintaining an often uncomfortable pose for hours on end. For him, a flak vest and helmet would do.

Next up, rifle, scope, and ammo. Bobby slung his Sig Sauer 3000 over his shoulder, then went with a Leupold 3-9X 50mm variable scope. His scope was already zeroed to one hundred yards, standard setup for a law enforcement sniper, versus military snipers, who zeroed their scopes to five hundred yards. The military guys, however, were running around in ghillie suits and crawling through swamps. Bobby's job rarely got that interesting.

Briefly, Bobby debated night-vision goggles, but given that the area was lit up like the Fourth of July, he passed.

That left ammo. He selected two: Federal Match Grade.308 Remington 168-grain slugs, and Federal Match Grade.308 Remington 165-grain bullets with bonded tips. The 168-grain slugs were standard issue; the 165-grain bullets were better for shooting through glass. Given that it was a cold night and the residence in question seemed buttoned up tight, he'd start with a bonded tip in the chamber. When you only got one shot, you had to play the odds.

Next Bobby pared down his rucksack to three bottles of water, two PowerBars, a bean bag, his binoculars, and a range finder. He closed his trunk and turned immediately to the street.

He had his gear, now he needed a position.

Back Bay was an old, wealthy area of Boston. The tall, narrow brownstones boasted granite arches, elaborate wrought-iron balconies, and expansive bay windows. Broad shade trees, beautiful in the summer but now mere silhouettes, cast their skeletal canopies over BMWs, Saabs, and Mercedes, while in the glow of the police floodlights, gray veins of leafless ivy climbed up redbrick walls and caressed intricate window casings. It was a beautiful city block, grand, self-contained, slightly arrogant.

Bobby could work his entire life and still not be able to afford to park on a street like this, let alone live here. Funny how some people could seemingly have every advantage in life and still be so royally fucked up.

Distance would not be a problem, he determined. The brown-stones sat shoulder to shoulder, with only fifty yards between one side of the street and the other. Angle was more of a consideration. Anything greater than forty-five degrees and the ballistics grew problematic. The brownstone in question appeared to be five stories, plus a daylight basement. The CO had commented, however, that the fifth floor had essentially become a vaulted ceiling for a fourth-story master bedroom.

That would fit what Bobby saw now-lights blazing on the fourth story, where there appeared to be a balcony with an elaborate wrought-iron railing.