She did not reply

I squeezed her hand. "Thank you."

She looked very unhappy, distracted even, and I thought I knew what was going on here.

After a moment, I asked her, "Jason was your first kill. Right?"

"Yeah. My first kill. A man with his hands tied behind his back. I… well, I…" Her eyes became misty.

"It happens, Jennie. You couldn't know his hands were tied behind his back. For all you knew, he had a weapon. Through the smoke and dust, that's what your eye saw, and what your mind registered. In the heat of action, the eye overrules the mind, and the finger on the trigger doesn't discriminate."

She looked at me and said nothing.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Within three minutes, the hostage rescue team leader must've radioed out that the deed was done, because everybody suddenly relaxed. Actually that might be overstating it, but a few agents lit up cigarettes, and a few people wandered out into the open from behind the vans.

A forensics team was sent into the townhouse, followed closely by four teams of medical technicians bearing stretchers. Then lots of unmarked sedans Med with Johnny-come-latelies began pouring down the street. On their heels followed the ubiquitous TV news vans, prenotified, I guess, so the public could witness this effervescent moment in FBI history But I wasn't being judgmental-the Feds had bled and suffered for this one. What little credit was due, they deserved.

Somebody with bad manners in a gray suit kept ordering me into an ambulance. I insisted I was fine, and swore I could and Would swagger out of here on my own two feet. It was all macho posturing from big bad Sean, of course. I get a little weird standing around in public in my undershorts.

Also Jennie remained very hurt and uptight, staring off into space, absorbed in her own thoughts. I held her hand and I figured-no matter how silly-that I was helping her hold it together.

But the FBI has a lot of rules, and rule number one is follow all the rules. So somebody went and found the commander of the HRT, who approached me and said, "Drummond, right?"

"No. He's the tall, good-looking guy wearing all his clothes."

"One of those splinters fly into your brain or something?"

I checked my groin. "Nope."

He laughed." I heard you were crazy as hell. Listen, you did a good job. We appreciate it."

"Aw, any dumbass could've done it."

"My thoughts exactly." He stopped smiling. "Now, are you getting into that ambulance or do I put your ass in?"

Through the corner of my eye I saw a few TV cameramen taking shots, and one was about ten feet away and just starting a sweep in our direction. Before I made Five O'Clock Live in my present condition, I stepped into the back of the ambulance.

I even got a ride in a wheelchair once we arrived at Arlington General and was hustled toward the operating room. A pair of young docs had a field day, digging shards of glass out of my skin and stitching me up. One even offered me the fragments, suggesting they would make a very memorable stained-glass mosaic. Another noted the scars from my old war wounds and remarked upon what a terrifically popular person I must be. They were very funny Seriously.

I swallowed three aspirins, and one of the docs told me to wait thirty minutes for observation, in the event I had a sudden attack of common sense, unlikely as that might be. I was given a set of genuine surgeon's scrubs to wear, which was pretty cool. I was assured it would be on my bill of course.

I was allowed to walk on my own out to the waiting room, and I found a chair off in the corner, where, for the first time in two days, I was alone and could think.

Starting from when Jennie picked me up at the George Bush Center for Intelligence, the past forty-eight hours had been like some Hollywood action movie at 78 rpm, a blur of gore, emotional chaos, and frantic confusion. I had seen enough death and misery for a lifetime, and those images were imprinted on my brain. I had set up four people to die, and I had a few misgivings about that. I had a lot to contemplate.

But there happened to be a TV perched on a nearby wall bracket, the evening news was on, and the shootout was the story of the hour, the day, and probably the month. I leaned back into my chair, put my feet up, and started watching, when a voice inside my head screamed, Hey idiot, you haven't slept in two days.

Then somebody was shaking my shoulder, asking, "Hey-you all right?"

I saw Agent Rita Sanchez, holding two steaming cups of coffee, bless her heart. I had not a clue how long I had slept, nor was there a way to tell. In hospitals there is no day and no night.

Rita fell into the seat beside me. She handed me a cup, and I took a long sip. She informed me, "Jennie said you might need a ride home. She's real busy right now."

"I'll bet."

"How you doing?"

I could answer that two ways-honestly or not. So I lied. "Fine. Glad it's over, glad the good guys won…"

She smiled knowingly "You got postpartem blues. All that adrenaline gets pumped into you, then it just goes, like a petered-out balloon. I see it all the time."

"You don't see it this time."

"I think I do."

"I think you don't. The knights slew the dragons, I'm glad."

"Sure you are." After a moment she added, "We're gonna need a statement. You're the only person who actually spent time with these people."

"The only one who survived."

"Same thing."

"No, it's not the same thing."

Rita detected that I was in a queer mood and decided not to press it. Changing the subject, she said, "They put up a hell of a battle at the end. The HRT guys said they fought like wildcats. The woman went down last. She ran out of the bedroom spraying her M16"

"In fact, I was wondering about that."

"About what?"

I looked Rita in the eyes. "Correct me if I'm wrong. It was my impression that the proper procedure in hostage rescue situations is to first warn the suspects they are surrounded, then offer to negotiate, and only if that fails… then assault by force."

"There are times when we do it that way."

"Why wasn't it done that way this time?"

"Tactical judgment."

"I see. Well… what made this assault so different that it was decided to deviate from procedure?"

She matter-of-factly replied, "We have a standard template for making these calls. Assessment of the criminal mindset, prior experience with the perps, an evaluation of risk regarding our hostage-all these factors are carefully weighed and considered. That last point is always preeminent. The hostage is always our priority."

I think she knew where I was going with this, and I don't think she liked it. I informed her, "I can see where an undeclared assault might be justified, but here's where I get confused. The Hostage Rescue Team managed to physically separate the hostage from the kidnappers. The Texans left me and Barnes behind and fled to the bedrooms. Yet the assault continued unabated. Why?"

After a moment, Rita said, "I make it a practice to never second-guess the decision of the team leader in contact. You should do the same. Those people saved your ass."

"And I'm not ungrateful. But you see, Rita, I was surprised when the team rushed right past me. Nobody paused to check on me, untie me, or even evacuate me. Jason Barnes was equally ignored."

She sort of shrugged. "I'm sure the team felt you were safe and the prisoner was secured. As I said, hostage safety is priority number one, followed by apprehension of the suspects."

"What were the team's orders?"

"What I stated. Secure the hostage, neutralize, then apprehend the suspects."

"Their rules of engagement?"

"Use reasonable force. But this was an extremis situation, obviously. The killers were heavily armed, and I shouldn't have to remind you of all people, they were vicious murderers. If you're implying we sent that team in to assassinate those people, you're wrong."