“The forward sniper’s in position?”

Bo Haumann, former drill sergeant and now head of the city’s Emergency Service Unit-NYPD’s SWAT team-gestured at a building that provided a perfect shooting location, covering the tiny backyard of the detached house where DeLeon Williams was living.

“Yes, sir,” an officer standing nearby said. “And Johnny’s got the back covered.”

“Good.”

A graying man, crew cut and tough as leather, Haumann ordered the two ESU takedown teams into position. “And stay out of sight.”

Haumann had been in his own backyard not far from here, coaxing last year’s charcoal to ignite, when a call came in about a rape/murder and a solid lead to the suspect. He turned over the incendiary mission to his son, donned his gear and sped out, thanking the good Lord that he hadn’t popped that first beer. Haumann would drive after he’d had a couple of brews, but he never fired a weapon within eight hours of imbibing.

And there was now a chance, on this fine Sunday, that they would see some gunplay.

His radio crackled and through the headset earpiece he heard, “S and S One to Base, K.” A Search and Surveillance team was across the street, along with the second sniper.

“Base. Go ahead, K.”

“Getting some thermals. Somebody could be inside. No audible.”

Could be, Haumann thought, irritated. He’d seen the budget for the equipment. It ought to be able to say for sure if somebody was inside-if not report their goddamn shoe size and whether they’d flossed that morning.

“Check again.”

After what seemed like forever, he heard, “S and S One. Okay, we’ve got only one person inside. And a visual through a window. It’s definitely DeLeon Williams, from the DMV pic you passed out, K.”

“Good. Out.”

Haumann called the two tactical teams, which were moving into position around the house now, remaining nearly invisible. “Now, we didn’t have much time for a briefing. But listen up. This perp is a rapist and a killer. We want him alive but he’s too dangerous to let get away. If he makes any hostile gesture, you’re green-lighted.”

“B leader. Roger that. Be advised, we’re in position. Alley and streets to the north are covered and back door, K.”

“A leader to Base. Roger the green light. We’re in position on front door, and covering all streets to the south and east.”

“Snipers,” Haumann radioed. “You copy the green light?”

“Roger.” They added that they were locked and loaded. (The phrase was a pet peeve of Haumann’s, since it was unique to the old M-1 army rifle, with which you had to lock the bolt back and load a clip of bullets through the top; you didn’t have to lock a modern rifle to load it. But now wasn’t the time for lectures.)

Haumann unsnapped the thong on his Glock and slipped into the alley behind the house, where he was joined by yet more officers, whose plans on this idyllic spring Sunday, like his, had changed so fast and dramatically.

At that moment a voice clattered into his earpiece, “S and S Two to Base. I think we’ve got something.”

On his knees DeLeon Williams carefully looked through a crack in the door-an actual crack in the wood that he’d been meaning to fix-and could see that the officers were no longer there.

No, he corrected himself, they’re no longer visible. Big difference. He saw a glint of metal or glass in the bushes. Maybe from one of those weird elves or deer lawn ornaments the neighbor collected.

Or it might be a cop with a gun.

Lugging the bag, he crawled to the back of the house. Another peek. This time, risking a look through the window, struggling hard to control the panic.

The backyard and the alley beyond were empty.

But once again he corrected: seemed to be empty.

He felt another shiver of PTSD panic and an urge to race out the door, pull the gun and charge down the alley, threatening anybody he saw, screaming for them to stand back.

Impulsively, his mind whirling, he reached for the knob.

No…

Be smart.

He sat back, head against the wall, working to slow his breathing.

After a moment he calmed and decided to try something else. In the basement was a window that led into the tiny side yard. Across eight feet of anemic grass a similar window opened into his neighbor’s basement. The Wongs were away for the weekend-he was watering their plants for them-and Williams figured he could sneak inside, then upstairs and through their back door. If he was lucky the police wouldn’t be covering the side yard. Then he’d take the alley up to the main street and jog to the subway.

The plan wasn’t great but it gave him more of a chance than just waiting here. Tears again. And panic.

Stop it, soldier. Come on.

He rose and staggered down the stairs into the basement.

Just get the hell out. The cops’d be at the front door at any minute, kicking it in.

He unlatched the window and climbed up and out. Starting to crawl toward the Wongs’ basement window, he glanced to his right. He froze.

Oh, Jesus Lord…

Police, a male and a female detective, holding guns in their right hands, were crouching in the narrow side yard. They weren’t looking his way, but staring out, toward the back door and the alley.

The panic again slammed hard. He’d pull out the Colt and threaten them. Make them sit down, cuff themselves and throw away their radios. He hated to do it; that would be a real crime. But he didn’t have any choice. They were obviously convinced he’d done something terrible. Yes, he’d get their guns and flee. Maybe they had an unmarked car nearby. He’d take their keys.

Was somebody covering them, somebody he couldn’t see? A sniper maybe?

Well, he’d just have to take that chance.

He quietly set the bag down and began to reach for the gun.

Which was when the woman detective turned his way. Williams gasped. I’m dead, he thought.

Janeece, I love you…

But the woman glanced at a piece of paper and then squinted as she looked him over. “DeLeon Williams?”

His voice gurgled. “I-” He nodded, shoulders falling. He could only stare at her pretty face, her red hair in a ponytail, her cold eyes.

She held up the badge that was hanging around her neck. “We’re police officers. How’d you get out of your house?” Then she noted the window and nodded. “Mr. Williams, we’re in the middle of an operation here. Could you go back inside? You’ll be safer there.”

“I-” Panic was shattering his voice. “I-”

“Now,” she said insistently. “We’ll be with you as soon as everything’s resolved. Be quiet. Don’t try to leave again. Please.”

“Sure. I…Sure.”

He left the bag and started to ease through the window.

She said into her radio, “This’s Sachs. I’d expand the perimeter, Bo. He’s going to be real cautious.”

What the hell was going on? Williams didn’t waste time speculating. He awkwardly climbed back into the basement and walked upstairs. Once there he headed straight into the bathroom. He lifted the lid off the back of the toilet and dropped the gun in. He walked to the window, going to peek out once more. But then paused and ran back to the toilet just in time to be painfully sick.

A curious thing to say, given this fine day-and given what I’ve been up to with Myra 9834-but I miss being in the office.

First, I enjoy working, always have. And I enjoy the atmosphere, the camaraderie with the sixteens around you, almost like a family.

Then there’s the feeling of being productive. Being involved in fast-paced New York business. (“Cutting edge” one hears, and that’s something I do hate, the corporate-speak-a phrase that is itself corporate-speak. No, the great leaders-FDR, Truman, Caesar, Hitler-didn’t need to wrap themselves in the cloak of simple-minded rhetoric.)