Talley pulled his car to the curb outside Mrs. Peña's home and cut the engine. He looked at the command van. With nothing going on at the house, Maddox and Ellison would have pulled back to the van to alternate shifts on the phone, the off negotiator catching a catnap in the van's bunk or the backseat of a car. Talley was tired. The center of his back between his shoulder blades was knotted with a pronounced pain that cut into his spine. His head felt cloudy from more than fatigue, leaving him to mistrust his thinking. He wasn't a kid anymore.

Talley went inside for a cup of black coffee, but returned to his car. Three of the CHiPs and two sheriffs were in Mrs. Peña's kitchen, but he didn't want to talk. He sat on the curb with the Nokia and his own phone beside him. He sipped the coffee, thinking about Amanda and Jane, seeing them seated together on a couch in the anonymous room where they were held, seeing them alive, seeing them unharmed, seeing them safe. Imagining them that way helped.

Talley's radio popped at his waist.

'Chief, Cooper.'

'Go, Coop.'

'Ah, I'm here at the south gate. We got some FBI guys asking for you.'

Talley didn't answer. He worked at breathing. He stared at the Sheriff's command van and the line of police cars lining the street and the officers moving among them, feeling frightened and unsure. He was about to lie to them. It would be like letting the enemy into the camp. It would be lying to these people who were here to help him and help the people in that house.

'Chief? They say you're expecting them.'

'Let them in.'

Talley walked up the street to the corner. He didn't know what to expect and wanted to meet them alone, away from everyone else. He stood beneath a street lamp so they would stop in its light. He wanted to see them.

Two gray Econoline vans eased to the corner, four men in the lead van, two in the rear. Talley raised his hand, stopping them. Both vans pulled to the curb and cut their engines. The men inside had short haircuts and were wearing black tactical fatigues, standard issue for FBI tactical units. One of the men in the back wore a ball cap that read FBI.

The driver said, 'You Talley?'

'Yes.'

The man on the passenger side of the lead van got out and came around the nose of the van. He was taller than Talley and muscular. He looked the part: Black tac fatigues, jump boots, buzzed hair. A black pistol hung beneath his left arm in a ballistic holster.

He stopped in front of Talley, glanced up the street at the Sheriffs, then turned back to Talley.

'Okay, Chief, let me see some ID. I want to be sure who I'm talking to.'

Talley lifted his sweatshirt enough to show his badge.

'I don't give a shit about that. Show me a picture.'

Talley took out his wallet and showed the photo ID. When he was satisfied, he took out his own badge case and opened it for Talley to see.

'Okay, here's mine. My name is Special Agent Jones.'

Talley inspected an FBI credential that identified the man as William F. Jones, Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It showed a photograph of Jones. It looked real.

'Don't sweat anyone asking for our papers. Every man in my group has the ID.'

'Are you all named Jones?'

Jones snapped the case closed and put it away.

'Don't be funny, Chief. You can't afford it.'

He slapped the nose of the lead van, nodding at the driver. The doors of both vans opened. The remaining five men stepped out, moving to the rear of the second van. Like Jones, they looked the part down to the haircuts. They strapped into armored vests with FBI emblazoned on the back.

Jones said, 'In a few minutes your phone is going to ring. You know the phone I mean. So let's get some stuff straight before that. Are you paying attention?'

Talley was watching the men. They strapped on the vests, then snapped on new thigh guards with practiced efficiency. Someone at the rear of the second van passed out black knit masks, flash-bang grenades, and helmets. Each man folded the mask twice and tucked it under his left shoulder strap where he could reach it easily later. They clipped the grenades to their harnesses without fumbling and tossed their helmets into the seats or balanced them atop the van. Talley knew the moves, because he had practiced them himself when he worked SWAT Tactical. These men had done this before.

'I'm paying attention. You used to be a cop.'

'Don't worry about what I used to be. You've got other stuff to worry about.'

Talley looked at him.

'How can you people expect this to work? The Sheriffs have a full crisis response team here. They're going to be pissed off and they're going to have questions.'

'I can handle the Sheriffs and anything else that comes up. What's my name?'

Talley didn't know what in hell he wanted.

'What?'

'I asked you my name. You just saw my commission slip. What's my fucking name?'

'Jones.'

'All right. I'm Special Agent Jones. Think of me that way and you won't fuck up. I can lift my end, you got a wife and kid praying you can lift yours.'

Talley's head throbbed. His neck was so tight that it burned, but he managed a nod.

Jones turned so that they both faced the line of vehicles.

'Who's in charge there?'

'Martin. She's a captain.'

'You told her about us yet?'

'No. I didn't know what to say.'

'Good, that's better for us. The less time she has to ask questions, the better. Now, the man on the phone, you know who I mean, did he tell you how we're going to cover this?'

'Smith is in witness protection.'

'Right, Smith is in the program so we have a proprietary interest. What's my name again?'

Talley flashed with anger and fought to control it. Everything seemed out of control and surreal, standing there in the purple street light, moths ticking and snapping into the glass, with these cops who weren't cops.

'Jones. Your name is Jones. I wish I knew your fucking real name.'

'Keep it tight, Chief. We gotta work together here. I'm in charge of a special operations unit that was working training exercises on the border with the Customs Service when Washington learned what was happening here. The D.C. office called you, explained the situation, and asked for your cooperation. We owe Smith, we're obligated to protect him and his cover, so you agreed. I'm going to explain all this to Captain Martin, and all you're going to do is sit there and nod. You got that?'

'I've got it.'

'Martin won't like it, having us here, but she'll go along because what we're telling her makes sense.'

'What if she checks? What if she knows people in the LA office?'

'It's after midnight on a Friday night. She phones LA, all she'll get is a duty agent, and he'll have to check with someone else, which he won't want to do. Even if she calls the agent in charge in Los Angeles and wakes him, he'll wait until tomorrow to call D.C., because none of these people, not one, will have any reason to doubt us. We're not gonna be here that long.'

Jones handed Talley a white business card with the FBI seal pressed into the left corner and a phone number with a Washington, D.C., area code.

'If she gets it into her head to call someone, tell her that this is the guy back there who called you. She can talk to him until she's blue.'

Talley put the card in his pocket, wondering if the name on the card was a real agent, and thought that he probably was. Thinking that scared him. It was like a warning, this is how much power we have.

Talley glanced at the men. They were geared up now. A man in the second van was passing out MP5s, CAR-15s, and loaded magazines.

'What are you people going to do?'

'You and I are going to straighten this out with the Sheriffs. Two of my people are going to reconnoiter the house, see what we have. After that, we'll deploy in a secure position and wait for the man to call. You've got your phone, I have mine. When he gives the word, we move. If something happens in the house that provokes a launch beforehand, we'll do it. But we will control the scene until we've recovered our target. After that, the house is yours.'