In the crush of events, Brandt's presence continued to go unnoticed. Ariola went to talk to the newspeople, while the commander ran across the street and disappeared into Amy's building. Every minute or so, another policemen in a black TAC unit jacket would show up and report to the deputy commander at the door to the motor home. At some point- any normal measure of time had long since become meaningless- Ariola reappeared next to Brandt, and they both watched as the commander came out of the lobby, looked up into the sky and jogged back over to where they stood. He spoke to his deputy. "I don't see how we can wait much longer."

"I don't either."

"The Chief ordered me to wait for him. If we bust in, we could lose her. Although I don't know what else he's got in mind." Again, the commander glanced at the rapidly darkening sky. Shaking his head, he sighed with exasperation, looked up again. "Five minutes," he said, "and it's dark. We've got to go in."

He'd been sitting the whole time, holding the gun with its awkward attachment, the silencer, resting on the arm of the chair. His finger continually, unconsciously, teased the trigger as he flipped one by one- casually, relaxed- through the pages of the various magazines Wu kept next to her reading chair. She became nearly hypnotized with fear, watching it. Once she shifted her weight in her chair at the table and it was as though she'd prodded him with electricity, so quickly did he have the gun raised, all focus and menace. "Don't move!"

Then, satisfied that she wouldn't, he sat back, crossed one leg comfortably over the other and began turning pages again.

Wu didn't know what she could do to save herself, and so sat in a numbed state of panic and resignation. She'd already considered what she thought were her only options. In his chair, he was probably close to ten feet away from her, farther than she could leap in a quick rush. The front door was still deadlocked and chained. The bathroom- the only place she might conceivably escape to- was all the way at the back corner of the large, otherwise open room.

She thought that when the time came, if indeed he gave her any warning at all, she would bolt and try to throw something- the saltshaker, the chair she sat on. But she realized from his demeanor throughout this excruciating wait that he was just as likely to lick his finger, turn a page, check the window (as he'd done a dozen times), decide it was sufficiently dark, lift the gun without a word or warning and shoot her. Then unlock the door and walk downstairs and out into the sheltering night.

Unable to bear watching his twitching finger any longer, she closed her eyes, trying to find some place of inner peace, but found there was nowhere she could go. This was the end of her life, and all she could feel was the coming void. Opening her eyes again, she watched him flip a page, glance at her as though she were a piece of furniture, look back down at his magazine, turn his head to the window, flip another page.

The small hole in the barrel of the silencer, the finger dancing over the trigger guard, had so dominated her consciousness that she hadn't looked at the window herself in what must have been minutes. But now she did and realized that the night had truly come on- she was looking at her own reflection now in the glass, as though in a mirror. There was no more light from outside to dissipate the image.

He would not wait much longer.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The sound startled them both. Wu gave a little involuntary yelp and he jumped where he sat, the chair legs giving a little screech on the hardwood floor. At the same time, the magazine slipped and fell out of his lap. After all the silence in the room, the two sounds- the knock and the dropped magazine- seemed to Amy to echo like thunder.

She shot a startled glance at him. He lifted the gun, his arm outstretched, centered on her heart. The gun never left her. His eyes went to the door, back to her. The initial moment of panic passed. She felt she could see him plotting what he would do. With the inadvertent noises from inside, there was no way to pretend that no one was home.

Quickly, he pointed the gun at the door, then back to her, and nodded.

"Who is it?"

"Amy. It's me. Diz. We had a meeting?"

She turned to him. Mouthed, "My boss."

Something like a smile curled the corner of his mouth. All the better. He nodded. The message was Let him in. He got to his feet.

"Just a second," she said.

In a few steps, agile as a cat, suddenly he'd come around the table and pressed himself against the wall by the door. He moved the gun up and now held it on her head. One foot from her head.

Wu read his intentions with crystal clarity. When she opened the door, it would block him from sight until Hardy was inside. And then he would shoot. And then both of them would die. She couldn't let that happen.

What was he doing here? They hadn't planned any meeting.

She undid the chain, fumbling with it, her hands shaking.

If she threw the door back quickly, could she disable him? She looked down for an instant, saw that he'd planted his foot to prevent that. The door could open only enough to let Hardy in, nothing more. And meanwhile he could fire at will.

If she let him in, Hardy would die, too. She couldn't be responsible for that. If she was going to die anyway, maybe at least she could warn him first.

Her thoughts tumbling over one another, she watched as though from a distance as her hands turned the dead bolt, went to the knob, turned it.

Dropping her hand, resigned now to the gun there at her ear, she heard herself saying, "I don't feel well. You have to go, Diz."

"We need to talk," he said, "face to face. It's urgent."

Hardy knew she'd undone the chain. He'd heard her throw the dead bolt, watched the doorknob turn and heard the little click. The door was unlocked. He guessed she was stalling for time, but there was no more time.

He grabbed the knob, turned, lowered his shoulder and exploded into the crack where he'd opened the door, hitting her with a tackle at the waist, taking her down with him.

Before they'd even hit the floor, the four TAC unit specialists who'd crammed into the landing behind Hardy crashed in through the opening with their guns drawn, splintering the door completely off its hinges. There were another four behind them, and then yet another team, rushing unstoppable as a flash flood into the apartment.

The force of the door flying back knocked the gun from his grip and somersaulted him back over the table and onto the floor. Crashing against the counter where Wu kept her dishes and cooking supplies, for an instant he lay stunned on the floor amid the splintered wood and broken glass. But in the half-second before anyone could reach him, emitting an animal cry, he made a last desperate scramble and lunge for his weapon.

But he never made it, as the first pair of TAC unit specialists reached and fell upon him.

Writhing and screaming, a run-over animal whose back had been broken, he grunted and kicked and gouged and spewed his vile rage until they'd gotten his hands behind his back and cuffed him. Now, facedown in his own blood and spread-eagled with a TAC guy on each leg and another kneeling on his back, he couldn't move a muscle.

Glitsky was standing in the doorway, his own gun drawn, but now held down at his side. He could see that his plan- well, his and Hardy's- had worked. And they'd managed to pull it off without anyone having to die. Their backs against the wall, Hardy sat next to Wu on the floor, a protective arm around her. Wu's head was down, her shoulders heaving a little as she cried out some of the tension.

Fine.

Glitsky walked over to where his troops had the suspect in righteous custody, and looked down at the now pathetic and restrained figure of the Executioner. They'd only discovered his name in the minutes before Brandt had called to say he knew where they could find him.