There was a pause in the shooting-then it began again. Weird as hell. It definitely sounded like rifle reports coming from inside.

Cars and taxis in the train terminal’s driveway were backing out, trying to get away from the scene of gunfire and madness. Commuters and day travelers were still pushing their way out of the building’s front doors. I’d never been involved with a sniper situation before.

In the course of my life in Washington, I’d been inside Union Station several hundred times. Nothing like this, though. Nothing even close to this morning.

“He’s got himself trapped in there. Purposely trapped! Why the hell would he do that?” Sampson asked as we came up to the front doors.

“Worries me, too,” I said. Why had Gary Soneji called me? Why would he effectively trap himself in Union Station?

Sampson and I slipped into the lobby of Union Station. The shooting from the balcony-from up high somewhere-suddenly started up again. We both went down flat on the floor.

Had Soneji already seen us?

Chapter 10

I KEPT my head low as my eyes scanned the huge and portentous train-station lobby. I was desperately looking for Soneji. Could he see me? One of Nana’s sayings was stuck in my head: Death is nature’s way of saying “howdy.”

Statues of Roman legionnaires stood guard all around the imposing main hall of Union Station. At one time, politically correct Pennsylvania Railroad execs had wanted the warriors fully clothed. The sculptor, Louis Saint-Gaudens, had managed to sneak by every third statue in its accurate historical condition.

I saw three people already down, probably dead, on the lobby floor. My stomach dropped. My heart beat even faster. One of the victims was a teenage boy in cutoff shorts and a Redskins practice jersey. A second victim appeared to be a young father. Neither of them was moving.