"Agent Little," came the unfamiliar voice. "It's Frank Bishop. State police."

"Bishop?" It was that fucking cop who'd called before. "Put Henry Jaeger on."

"He's not here, sir. I lied. I had to get through to you. Don't disconnect. You have to listen to me."

Bishop was the one they'd decided might be a perp inside the house trying to distract them.

Except, Little now reflected, the phone lines to the house and the cell were down, which meant that the call couldn't be coming from the killers.

"Bishop… What the hell do you want? You know what kind of trouble you're going to be in for impersonating an FBI agent? I'm hanging up."

"No! Don't! Ask for reconfirmation."

"I don't want to hear any of this hacker crap."

Little examined the house. Everything was still. Moments like this summoned a curious sensation – exhilarating and frightening and numbing all at the same time. You also had the queasy sense that one of the killers had itchy crosshairs on you, picking out a target of flesh two inches off the vest.

The cop said, "I just nailed the perp who did the hacking and shut his computer down. I guarantee you won't get a reconfirmation. Send the request."

"That's not procedure."

"Do it anyway. You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you go in there under Level 4 rules of engagement."

Little paused. How had Bishop known they were operating at Level 4? Only someone on the team or with access to the bureau computer could have known that.

The agent noticed his second in command, Steadman, tap his watch impatiently then nod toward the house.

Bishop's voice was pure desperation. "Please. I'll stake my job on it."

The agent hesitated then muttered, "You sure as hell just did, Bishop." He slung his machine gun over his shoulder and switched back to the tactical frequency. "All teams, stay in position. Repeat, stay in position. If you're fired upon full retaliation is authorized."

He sprinted back to the command post. The communications tech looked up in surprise. "What's up?"

On the screen Little could still see the confirmation code okaying the attack.

"Confirm the red code again."

"Why? We don't need to reconfirm if-"

"Now," Little snapped.

The man typed.

FROM: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA

TO: DOJ TAC OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01:

RED CODE CONFIRM?

A message popped up on the screen:

(Please Wait)

These few minutes could give the killers inside a chance to prepare for an assault or to rig the house with explosives for a group suicide that would take the lives of a dozen of his men.

Please Wait

This was taking too much time. He said to the communications officer, "Forget it. We're going in." He started toward the door.

"Hey, wait," the officer said. "Something's weird." He nodded at the screen. "Take a look."

FROM: DOJ TAC OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TO: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA

RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01

‹NO INFORMATION. PLEASE VERIFY OPERATION NUMBER›

The man said, "It's the right number. I checked."

Little: "Send it again."

Once more the agent typed and hit ENTER.

Another delay. Then:

FROM: DOJ TAG OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TO: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA

RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01

‹NO INFORMATION. PLEASE VERIFY OPERATION NUMBER›

Little pulled his black hood off and wiped his face. Christ, what was this?

He grabbed the phone and called the FBI agent who handled the territory near the San Pedro military reserve, thirty miles away. The agent told him that there'd been no break-in or theft of weapons that afternoon. Little dropped the receiver into the cradle, staring at the screen.

Steadman ran up to the door of the trailer. "What the hell's going on, Mark? We've waited too long. If we're going to hit them it's gotta be now."

Little continued to gaze at the screen.

‹NO INFORMATION. PLEASE VERIFY OPERATION NUMBER›

"Mark, are we going?"

The commander glanced toward the house. By now there'd been enough of a delay that the occupants might have grown suspicious that the phones were out. Neighbors had probably called the local police about the troops in the neighborhood and reporters' police scanners would have picked up the calls.

Press helicopters might be on their way. There'd be live broadcasts from the choppers and the killers inside could be watching the accounts on TV in a few minutes.

Suddenly a voice in the radio: "Alpha team leader one, this's sniper three. One of the suspects's on the front steps. White male, late twenties. Hands in the air. I have a shot-to-kill. Should I take it?"

"Any weapons? Explosives?"

"None visible."

"What's he doing?"

"Walking forward slowly. He's turned around to show us his back. Still no weapons. But he could have something rigged under his shirt. I'll lose the shot to foliage in ten seconds. Sniper two, pick up target when he's past that bush."

"Roger that," came the voice of another sniper.

Steadman said, "He's got a device on him, Mark. All the bulletins've said that's what they're going to do – take out as many of us as they can. This guy'll set off the charge and the rest'll come out the back door, shooting."

‹NO INFORMATION. PLEASE VERIFY OPERATION NUMBER›

Mark Little said into his mike, "Bravo team leader two, order suspect onto the ground. Sniper two if he's not facedown in five seconds, take your shot."

"Yessir."

They heard the loudspeaker a moment later: "This is the FBI. Lie down and extend your arms. Now, now, now!"

NO INFORMATION…

The agent then called in. "He's down, sir. Should we frisk and restrain?"

Little thought of his wife and two children and said, "No, I'll do it myself." He said into the mike: "All teams, pull back to cover."

He turned to the communications officer. "Get me the deputy director in Washington." Then he pointed a blunt finger at the conflicting messages – the go-ahead print-out and the "no information" message on the computer screen. "And let me know exactly how the hell this happened."