He refrained from detailing that overly rosy bit of fiction.

As intended, his phrasing put Washburn on the spot. Were the incident commander to choose a possibly bloody assault over a negotiator making progress, heads would roll, especially in a town as prone to argument-and suspicious of its police department-as Brattleboro, a famous bastion of liberal debate.

"All right. We'll cut the line. How fast do you think you can get him out?"

"You know I can't answer that, Ward. But I'm making progress."

"Right." Washburn hung up.

Ron readjusted his headphones. Purvis was still talking on the other phone, but now Linda was throwing her oar in, yelling at him to stop jerking himself off and make up his mind, calling him a loser and a dickhead who couldn't even make a standoff with the cops work. Ron could almost feel the tension building in Matt's head as the latter's responses, to both reporter and estranged wife, became increasingly terse.

Come on, Ron began repeating to himself, cut the goddamn wire. He hesitated pushing the button triggering the throw phone's ringer, unsure whether he'd be giving Matt a calmer harbor that way or merely adding to the pressure.

Just before he was about to go ahead, a shot went off, sharp as a whip's crack, audible even through the van's wall.

All hell broke loose. The note taker whirled around at the whiteboard, dropping his marker, Linda let out a scream over the headphones, and Washburn's voice yelled through the van's override speaker, "What the Christ happened, Ron?"

Ron could hear Kazak outside, shouting orders over his radio to his team, preparing for an assault.

He first spoke on the intercom, "Hold everyone off. Let me find out," and then rang through on the throw phone.

From habit alone, Matthew Purvis picked up. "What?"

Ron struggled to control his voice, happy to hear Linda still complaining in a grating voice in the background. "I thought I heard a noise, Matt. Just wondered if you were all okay in there."