"I'm going to get us out of here," Melanie signed. "That's what."

Arthur Potter and Angie Scapello were preparing to debrief Jocylyn Weiderman, who was being examined by medics at that moment, when they heard the first shot.

It was a faint crack and far less alarming than Dean Stillwell's urgent voice breaking over the speaker above their heads. "Arthur, we've got a situation here! Handy's shooting."

Hell.

"There's somebody in the field."

Before he even looked outside Potter pressed the button on the mike and ordered, "Tell everybody, no return fire."

"Yessir."

Potter joined Angie and Charlie Budd in the ocher window of the van.

"That son of a bitch," Budd whispered.

Another shot rang out from the slaughterhouse and the bullet kicked up a cloud of splinters from the rotting stockade post next to the dark-suited man about sixty yards from the command van. A voluminous handkerchief, undoubtedly expensive, billowed around the raised right hand of the intruder.

"Oh, no," Angie whispered in dismay.

Potter's heart sank. "Henry, your profile of the assistant attorney general neglected to mention he's out of his damn mind."

Handy fired again, hitting a rock just behind Roland Marks. The assistant AG stopped, cringing. He waved the handkerchief again. He continued slowly toward the slaughterhouse.

Potter pressed speed dial. As the phone rang and rang he muttered, "Come on, Lou."

No answer.

Dean Stillwell's voice came over the speaker. "Arthur, I don't know what to make of it. Somebody here thinks it's -"

"It's Roland Marks, Dean. Is he saying anything to Handy?"

"Looks like he's shouting. We can't hear."

"Tobe, you have those Big Ears in place still?"

The young agent spoke into his stalk mike and punched buttons. In a few seconds, the mournful yet urgent sound of the wind filled the van. Then Marks's voice.

"Lou Handy! I'm Roland Marks, assistant attorney general of the state of Kansas."

A huge crack of a gunshot, overly amplified, burst into the van. Everyone cringed.

Tobe whispered, "The other Big Ear's trained on the slaughterhouse but we're not getting anything."

Sure. Because Handy's not saying anything. Why talk when you can make your point with bullets?

"This is bad," Angie muttered.

The AG's voice again: "Lou Handy, this isn't a trick. I want you to give up the girls and take me in their place."

"Jesus," Budd whispered. "He's doing that?" He sounded half-impressed and Potter had to restrain himself from scowling at the state police captain.

Another shot, closer. Marks danced sideways.

"For the love of God, Handy," came the desperate voice. "Let those girls go!"

And all the while the phone inside the slaughterhouse rang and rang and rang.

Potter spoke into the radio mike. "Dean, I hate to say it but we've got to stop him. Hail him on the bullhorn and try to get him over to the sidelines. If he doesn't come, send out a couple of men."

"Handy's just playing with him," Budd said. "I don't think he's in any real danger. They could've shot him easy by now, they'd wanted to."

"He's not who I'm worried about," Potter snapped.

"What?"

Angie said, "We're trying to get hostages out, not in."

"He's making our job harder," Potter said simply, not explaining the terrible mistake Marks was now making.

With a whining ricochet, a bullet split a rock beside the lawyer's leg. Marks remained on his feet. He turned and he was listening to Dean Stillwell, whose voice was being picked up by the Big Ear and relayed into the van. To Potter's relief the sheriff wasn't cowed by the man's authority. "You there, Marks, you're to get under cover immediately or you'll be arrested. Come back this way."

"We've got to save them." Marks's raw voice filled the van. It sounded resolute but terrified and for a moment Potter's heart went out to him.

Another shot.

"No, sir. Do you understand? You're about to be placed under arrest." Potter called Stillwell and told him he was doing great. "Tell him he's endangering the girls doing this."

The sheriff's voice, mixing with the ragged wind, filled the van as he relayed this message.

"No! I'm saving them," the assistant AG shouted and started forward again.

Potter tried the throw phone again. No answer. "Okay, Dean. Go get him. No covering fire under any circumstances." Stillwell sighed. "Yessir. I've got some volunteers. I hope it's okay but I green-lighted pepper spray if he resists."

"Give him a blast for me," Potter muttered, and turned back to watch. Two troopers in body armor and helmets slipped from the line of trees and, crouching, headed through the field.

Handy fired several more times. He hadn't noticed the troopers yet and was aiming only around Marks, the shots always near-misses. But one bullet hit a rock and ricocheted upwards, shattering the windshield of a squad car.

The two troopers kept low to the ground, running perpendicularly to the front of the slaughterhouse. Their hips and sides were easy targets if Handy decided to turn malicious and draw blood. Potter frowned. One of the men looked familiar.

"Who're those troopers?" Potter asked Stillwell. "Is one of them Stevie Gates?"

"Yessir."

Potter exhaled a deep sigh. "He just got back from a run, Dean. What's he thinking of?"

"Well, sir, he wanted to go out again. Was really insistent about it."

Potter shook his head.

Marks was now only forty yards from the slaughterhouse, the two troopers closing in slowly, scrambling through the buffalo grass. Marks saw them and shouted for them to get away.

"Sir," the voice through the speaker called – Potter recognized it as Oates's – "our orders're to bring you back."

"Fuck your orders. If you care about those girls just leave me alone."

They heard a whoop of distant laughter the Big Ear was picking up. "Turkey shoot," resounded Handy's voice, riding on the wind. Another deafening gunshot. A rock beside one of the troopers flew into the air. They both dropped to their bellies, began crawling like soldiers toward the assistant AG.

"Marks," Gates called, breathing hard. "We're bringing you back, sir. You're interfering with a federal operation."

Marks whirled around. "What're you going to do to stop me, Trooper? You work for me. Don't you forget it."

"Sheriff Stillwell has authorized me to use all necessary force to stop you, sir. And I aim to."

"You're downwind, son. Pepper-spray me and you're the only one who'll get a faceful of it."

Handy fired again. The bullet split an ancient post two feet from Oates's head. The convict, still in a playful mood, laughed hard.

"Jesus," somebody muttered.

"No, sir," Gates said calmly, "my orders're to shoot you in the leg and drag you back."

Potter and LeBow stared at each other. The negotiator's fervent thumb pressed the transmit button. "He is bluffing, isn't he, Dean?"

"Yep" was Stillwell's unsteady reply. "But… he sounds pretty determined. I mean, don't you think?"

Potter did think.

"Would he do it?" LeBow asked.

Potter shrugged.

Angie said, "He's drawn his weapon."

Gates was aiming steadily at Marks's lower extremities.

Well, this is escalating into a full-blown disaster, Potter thought.

"Sir," Gates called, "I will not miss. I'm an excellent shot and I'm just about to bring you down."

The assistant AG hesitated. The wind ripped the handkerchief from his fingers. It rose a few feet above his head.

A shot.

Handy's bullet struck the white cloth. It jerked and floated away on the breeze.

Again, through the Big Ear, the distant sound of Handy laughing. Marks looked back at the slaughterhouse. Called out, "You son of a bitch, Handy. I hope you rot in hell."