Mcmahon looked down at his watch. It was 8:34, and they should be arriving any minute.

SHE HAD MADE it through the first twenty-four hours without getting hit.

Anna Rielly felt pretty good, considering what she had been through. Her back was a little stiff from sleeping on the floor or, at least, trying to sleep on the floor.

The terrorists had made sleep next to impossible by waking them at least once an hour from sundown to sunup. And to make matters worse, they also pulled people from the group and beat them in front of everyone.

For the women, there was something else to be afraid of.

Sometime after midnight, a young blond woman had been yanked from the group by the terrorist that had followed Rielly into the bathroom.

Rielly could not say for sure how long the young woman had been gone—the terrorists had taken everyone's watch in an effort to further disorient them-but it seemed to be at least several hours. When the woman finally returned, her clothes were partially torn and she had a look in her eyes… a look Rielly had once seen in her own eyes.

Rielly glanced down at Stone Alexander, who was lying crunched up in a fetal position, his jacket neatly folded under his head for a pillow.

She was grateful that he had stopped crying.

The less attention drawn to them the better.

Brushing a wisp of hair back behind her ear, she looked around the room, careful to keep her head down. Two guards were by the door talking to each other. Rielly knew she wasn't the only one who had to go to the bathroom, but no one dared ask after what had happened the night before.

Folding her legs Indian style, she glanced over her shoulder and then quickly turned her head back. The terrorist, the one with all of the jewelry and slicked-back hair, was staring at her with a cigarette hanging from his mouth—the same man who had plucked the young blonde from the group the night before.

Anna Rielly had been through that nightmare before, and she had sworn to herself that she would rather die than let it happen again. Four years earlier, Rielly had taken the Loop from the TV station in downtown Chicago to her apartment in Lincoln Park. It was late when she stepped off the train.

When she reached the street, two men jumped her from the shadows and dragged her into an alley and raped her. That harrowing event had left her bruised and battered, but her physical wounds were easy to overcome compared to the deeper mental scars. Even these were starting to heal, though, thanks in no small part to Coreen Allen, Rielly's therapist.

Rielly had been going to Allen twice a week for almost four years.

Before the rape she had been a fun-loving, outgoing young woman who very much enjoyed male companionship.

The rape had given her a hard edge and an understandable distrust of men with the help of Allen she had again grown to enjoy the company of men who were interested in her, but the physical boundary still had not been crossed. When she took her new job in Washington, Rielly thought it was the perfect chance for a fresh start.

One of the only benefits of the personal disaster was her hyper awareness Rielly had already had street smarts, but the rape had raised her awareness to an almost paranormal level. It was hard to imagine how her current situation could get any worse, but Rielly sensed that when nightfall came, it would.

IRENE KENNEDY WAS almost run over as she attempted to enter the FBI's command post. Two stocky men in SWAT uniforms came barreling out the doorway. The first almost butted Kennedy in the forehead with the brim of his blue baseball cap, but stopped just shy, grabbing her by the shoulders. He apologized without realizing whom he had almost knocked down, and then recognized Kennedy.

"Oh, Irene, I'm sorry." Sid Slater, aka the Jewish Terror, was still holding her by the shoulders.

"Sid," said Kennedy, also surprised, not used to seeing the commander of the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team in full SWAT gear. Slater had the physique of a bricklayer. Several inches shy of six feet and in his mid-forties, he had a barrel chest and strong, thick hands attached to Popeye-like forearms. Slater wasn't built to run marathons, rather, he was more suited to run through bolted doors.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" asked Kennedy.

"I'm trying to get some last-minute intel before they start talking."

Slater pointed with his thumb over his shoulder and shook his head.

"And I sure as hell don't want to be in there when the shit hits the fan."

Kennedy looked into the room.

"What's going on?"

"I don't have time to talk about it; Skip can fill you in. Are you gonna be at the planning meeting this afternoon?"

Kennedy nodded.

"I'll be there."

"Good… We can talk then. I have a lot of questions for you." With that, the Jewish Terror headed off down the hallway.

As Slater and the other man marched away, Kennedy watched them for a second, the bright yellow letters on their backs and their dark SWAT uniforms announcing to all that they were on the front line, that they would be the ones to storm the White House. Kennedy considered all the explosives Aziz had brought along and felt overwhelming dread as Slater moved off.

Kennedy entered the FBI's command post, which was buzzing with the activity of radios, phones, faxes, and people.

She had just left the conference room on the other side of the building where Vice President Baxter was gathered with select members of the cabinet and the intelligence and federal-lawenforcement communities.

From there that group would monitor the conversation between Aziz and the FBI negotiator and make any decisions if needed. At Mcmahon's request, Kennedy was to stay with him in the FBI's command post to offer any insight.

Across the room, by the windows that overlooked the West Wing, Skip Mcmahon was talking to a seated Attorney General Tutwiler and motioning to a group of phones. Kennedy walked across the room and stopped several feet away so as to not interrupt. She listened to what Skip was saying and quickly grew alarmed. Kennedy began to look around the room, and she did not like what she saw, or didn't see. It was getting close to nine, and she did not see anyone who appeared to be the FBI negotiator.

A short while later Mcmahon finished explaining to Tutwiler how the different phones worked and then turned to face Kennedy. With his back to the attorney general he rolled his eyes in frustration.

"Morning, Irene."

"Good morning." Kennedy nodded to Tutwiler and then looked back at Mcmahon.

"Where is your negotiator?"

Before Mcmahon had a chance to answer, Tutwiler said, "I'll be handling the negotiations."

In as passive a tone as Kennedy could muster, she replied, "No offense.

Madam Attorney General, but I don't think that is the most prudent course."

"And why is that?" asked Tutwiler aggressively.

"Because Rafique Aziz will take it as an insult that we have chosen a woman to negotiate with him."

"I am here, Ms. Kennedy, because I am the top-ranking law-enforcement officer in the land. I am here"—Tutwiler stressed the word and pointed at the ground—"to send a clear message to these terrorists that we are extremely serious about this situation."

Kennedy's thoughts drifted back to Mitch Rapp's words at the Pentagon the day before. They gave her the strength to state her opinion a bit more firmly.

"And I am here to advise you as the director of the Cia's Counterterrorism Center, you are making a grave mistake. I respect your accomplishments, Madam Attorney General, but Rafique Aziz will not. He will make you pay for what he will see as a blatant insult to his manhood." Tutwiler defiantly crossed her arms.

"I have encountered chauvinists all my life, and I have found that there is only one way to deal with them… head-on."