Joe studied the papers in his hand, immensely grateful that LoriSue had snapped out of it long enough to suggest her office fax over a copy of the listing, which included a floor plan, photos, and a detailed description of the property. Within moments, it all arrived via the portable fax machine in her car, and with that one stroke of luck the odds had shifted dramatically.

There had been no time for a search warrant and this wasn't exactly a textbook operation, but they had little choice. He and Rich Baum had instructed the FBI to back off, let them go in alone. The fewer agents at the scene, the less likely anyone would be spotted. And now Joe and Rich were on their stomachs in the tall grass behind a storage shed to the southeast of the house, about to go in.

They'd seen no movement through their binoculars and hadn't heard a sound. Yet they knew they were in there-the car Jimmy and LoriSue had described sat in the circular drive out front. What Joe and Rich were still debating was whether to go in now or jump the men as they left.

Joe's vote was to go for it. He knew all too well the way Guzman's men thought-they'd probably kill the kids before they even left the house. That way, if they didn't nab Joe or (tied in the attempt, they'd already have made their point.

His only prayer was that it hadn't happened yet.

It appeared a kitchen window bad been broken to gain entrance and Jimmy had said the only furnished room in the house was the second bedroom on the right upstairs, but the kids could be anywhere. Joe knew they could be tied up, drugged, injured, or even stuffed in the trunk of the car. The men who took them were capable of anything.

Joe shoved away the gruesome images and handed Rich the key to the front and back padlocks, another gift from LoriSue. "Let's go in here." Joe pointed to the floor plan, tapping his finger on a laundry room entrance off the kitchen.

Rich nodded, and they began to move, low to the ground, taking cover behind every bush or tree they could find along the way, then hugging tight to the house as they crouched beneath the windows, weapons drawn.

Joe covered Rich for the five seconds it took him to ease off the padlock and open the door. Rich slipped inside and Joe followed.

An instant after entering the small laundry room, the men heard voices and moved toward the door that led to the kitchen. The first words of Spanish that registered with Joe turned his blood to ice.

The men were just feet away, in the kitchen, arguing about whether to murder the children. One said the kids were friends with his nephew and should be spared, and the other said he didn't care-the children could identify them, and he planned on being able to enjoy his half-million dollars in peace.

While they argued, Joe cracked open the laundry room door just a fraction, enough that he and Rich could scan the kitchen for any sign of the kids. That's when he noticed a wooden shelf shoved up under the doorknob to what was probably the pantry.

Joe looked at Rich to be certain his partner saw that the children were likely in the pantry, and watched with approval as Rich did just what Joe had already done- calculate at what angle they'd have to shoot to miss the pantry door. Rich nodded to Joe to indicate he understood.

Just then, the argument escalated, and Guzman's men began to hurl loud insults at each other. Joe signaled to Rich that it was time to kick in the door.

Joe took a deep breath, feeling the sharp rush of adrenaline in every muscle fiber of his body, his mind focused on only one thing: getting the kids out alive. On the silent count of three, the two agents slammed the soles of their shoes against the door and sent it flying.

"Freeze! Federal agents!"

Joe saw that one man cradled an assault rifle and was opening the pantry door. The man was momentarily confused at the intrusion but then spun toward Joe with the gun. Joe fired before the other man could, and he fell backward from the force of the single bullet in his forehead.

At the same time, Rich, shot the second man in the back of the knee as he tried to run.

Then the screaming began.

Joe raced to the kitchen pantry and flung open the door the rest of the way. There was Matt, frozen in position, standing guard with a fire extinguisher, his face displaying the unflinching scowl of a warrior.

Hank and Justin huddled together on the floor behind Matt's legs, screaming their heads off.

"It's all right now, Matt." Joe touched the boy's white knuckles, clutched tight around the extinguisher's metal handle. "It's okay, Matt. I've got you."

Rich worked quickly to disarm and handcuff the second man, then radioed for an ambulance. Then he pulled the first man's body around the corner out of view of the children.

Joe reached down around Matt and placed a hand on Hank's shoulder. "It's okay, sweetheart. You're safe now."

She wouldn't stop screaming.

There was blood all over the kitchen floor, spreading around his feet, and Joe realized they'd have to carry the kids over it.

"C'mere, Matt. Let's go. We're getting out of here."

Matt would not let go of the fire extinguisher, so Joe just grabbed him and hoisted him up in his left arm.

"Hank! C'mon, slugger-we need to move."

Hank raised her head, her terrified eyes softening when she realized it was Joe. Then she jumped up and climbed his body like it was a piece of playground equipment. Joe held her tight.

Rich helped Justin to his feet and stroked the boy's hair. He told him to grab on.

Joe said, "Don't look, kids. Do you understand? Keep your eyes closed."

"No problem," Matt said, just before he buried his face in Joe's shoulder.

Joe carried Matt and Hank over the blood and out the laundry room door, Rich right behind him, already radioing for pickup. Matt wiggled to be put down the instant they were outside, but Joe thought Hank might be permanently latched onto him.

They stood quietly in the front drive, Matt's hand gripping his, as the line of cars pulled up. Joe's heart was just beginning to steady and his brain clear, and that's when he realized that, for some reason, he was wet from his chest to his knees.

Hank raised her face from the crook of his neck. "I'm sorry, Joe. I think I peed my pants."

"No problem, slugger." He kissed her cheek and watched Charlotte bolt from a car door, then stumble toward them. "I think I'm about to pee my pants, too," he whispered.

Charlotte skidded in the gravel and threw herself into them. Her hands went flying over her children, over their faces and hands and chests, as the tears ran. "Oh, please be all right. Please-"

"We're okay, Mama." Matt grabbed her arm. 'We're fine."

"They're not hurt, Charlotte." Joe knew she didn't hear a thing they were saying.

"Joe saved us," Hank said; "He was totally stable, too."

"Oh, my God!"

She hurled herself against Joe and Hank, pulling Matt against her as she went. Joe used his free hand to grab Charlotte around the shoulders and hold her up. He stood 'perfectly still, three people stuck to him, as he observed the familiar buzz of a crime scene around him. Two am-bulances wailed in the distance. Rich Baum was motioning that they had to leave.

He'd almost gotten them all killed.

Joe felt the sorrow build from below his knees, which now felt strangely weak, all the way up to his scalp. He was overwhelmed with it. Flattened by it. Rich motioned for him again. He needed to say good-bye to them all. Right now.

"I'd better go," he whispered into the top of Charlotte's head. She pulled her face away from him and frowned.

"Where are you going?" all three asked together.

He nodded to Rich to give him a second. "I don't know. I just have to leave. You won't be safe until I'm gone."