Wednesday, 10:21 a.m. PST

SHELLY COULDN ’T FIND THE DAMN PAY PHONE. She was driving around the block, craning her neck like a lunatic. She’d only lived in the town for the past few months; she was still learning her way around. And hell, who used pay phones anymore anyway? Seemed the whole world had gone cellular, even nine-year-old schoolkids.

Fuck it. She was burning too much time circling the intersection in her car. She cranked her vehicle up onto Madison Street, parking illegally and too frantic to care. No sign of a backup vehicle, least not that she could tell.

Looked like for the moment at least, she was on her own.

Shelly jogged down to Fifth Street, feeling the weight of her utility belt around her hips, the burden of seven thousand in cash slung over her shoulder. Her palms were sweaty, her breathing harsh. She’d never been in this kind of situation before and sometimes it didn’t matter if you were the sheriff, the boss woman, the leader of the pack. Not knowing was not knowing.

If Rainie and Dougie lived through this day, that was it. Shelly was going to Paris.

She arrived at the corner. Still no sign of a damn phone. A trick good ol’ Bob had played to pull the task force apart? She hefted the duffel bag back onto her shoulder and considered her options.

Then, just as she was starting to hyperventilate, it came to her. The glass doors leading into the diner.

Shelly wrenched them open and discovered a single phone.

“Please, God,” Shelly Atkins murmured under her breath, “don’t let it be me.”

Wednesday, 10:23 a.m. PST

ALANE GROVE KEPT HER COOL. The Wal-Mart parking lot was crowded and had a lousy layout for a store of its size. She turned in and was promptly blocked by a minivan waiting for a parking space.

She impatiently counted to twenty; the minivan finally pulled in, only for Alane to find herself face-to-face with one harried mother and three milling kids. Each kid took off in a different direction while the mother stood in the middle of the parking lot and screamed for their return.

The kids weren’t that impressed with their mother’s tantrum. They dodged two cars and a monster pickup truck before finally being corralled in back of a station wagon.

Two more minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness, then Alane found a parking spot.

She got out, trying not to appear too agitated. She was conscious that she might be watched. Aware that as a young, female police officer, she started out with two strikes against her.

She was a good detective, however. Had joined the force after serving four years in the Army Reserve. She could handle the pressure. At least that’s what she told herself.

She hefted the duffel bag over her shoulder, checked that she had the walkie-talkie easily accessible in her front jacket pocket, then headed for the store. She found the bank of pay phones outside the main entrance of the big-box retailer. Two phones. A man in a ripped-up flannel shirt was already talking on one.

Alane nearly stopped in front of the available phone, intent on her task. At the last minute, her brain kicked into gear. She passed by the first phone, noting the man’s height, lean build, the mud on his work boots. She gazed at his open heavyweight flannel top, perfect for concealing a weapon. She went straight inside the store and radioed in her description.

Kincaid promised her that backup was already on its way. Play it cool, don’t give anything away.

Alane walked by the glass doors again, making a big show of looking for a shopping cart. When she glanced outside, however, the man was gone.

She exited, inspecting the parking lot. She didn’t see any sign of the man, however, which didn’t make much sense. The parking lot was a big open space. No one could simply vanish.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. This was it. Something was happening, something was going down.

Seventeen minutes since the first phone call. Detective Alane Grove stood outside the Wal-Mart and readied for action.

She didn’t notice the man again until it was much too late.

Wednesday, 10:32 a.m. PST

SILENCE. SILENCE. SILENCE.

Quincy stood in the middle of the conference room, where only Candi, Lieutenant Mosley, and Kincaid remained. The negotiator paced the length of the room. Kincaid filled out paperwork. Lieutenant Mosley finally headed to the lobby, to deal with his hyperactive pager.

Fifteen minutes went by. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes.

And still there was only silence over the airwaves.

“What the hell is going on!” Quincy demanded at last.

But nobody had an answer.