1:40 p.m.

Triple J Truck Stop-East of Normal, Nebraska

Pakula watched from the tinted windows of the TV-repair van. His knees still felt a little unsteady but he was glad to be back on the ground. And he was glad he wasn't in charge. All this firepower made him nervous.

He was used to Omaha -a river valley with lots of hills and trees and buildings. Out here, where the landscape couldn't be much flatter and there were wide-open spaces where you could see for miles, there wasn't anywhere to hide. He thought for sure Barnett would be able to spot something: the reflection of a rifle scope or even a black boot on the rooftop of the deserted gas station across the road. There weren't any fucking trees. Just the parking lot, a long expanse of concrete surrounded by flat pastures of grass.

They didn't even know what kind of vehicle Barnett was driving now. Although they did know from Kramer who was with him-his sister and seventeen-year-old nephew. And hopefully-Pakula prayed-Andrew. He had reminded Sanchez several times about Andrew and asked what precautions were being taken. Did the SWAT team know they had a hostage? Had they seen pictures of Andrew as well as Jared? How would they know the difference between the two? How could they guarantee they wouldn't make a mistake?

Sanchez only shrugged and told him there were no guarantees with anything. Pakula knew he himself was sounding more like a civilian than a law enforcement officer. He knew the risks and had always been willing to take them, but in the past it had always been a matter of taking the risks for himself, not for a friend. Not for a friend he already felt responsible for.

"Almost two," Sanchez announced into his headset, and Pakula braced himself, his body stiffening just as it had earlier right before the Black Hawk had taken off. In retrospect, that part had been a cakewalk.