"Neighbors complained," Kinney explained. "Said they were screaming at each other next door and breaking things. That's sure what they were doing when I arrived."

"We know who 'they' are yet?"

"Linda Purvis is the owner of record, and according to the neighbors, the man sounds like her ex, Matthew. That matches the two vehicle registrations and the physical descriptions I got."

"Any kids?"

Kinney's face turned toward him in the half light, looking blank. "I don't know," he stammered. "I didn't ask."

"So, there may be others in there." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," the younger man admitted. "I guess so. If it helps," he added, "Dispatch said this wasn't the first time. Purvis is in the computer for prior domestics here, complete with a restraining order issued yesterday."

Which was probably what triggered this, Ron thought. One of the hallmarks of these kinds of situations, taught during his negotiator's training, was the so-called precipitating event. Almost without fail, it was lurking somewhere, usually acting as the proverbial one straw too many. In the worst cases, you got what they called the triple-three cataclysms striking virtually at once, like a freakish planetary alignment.

"You smell liquor on his breath?" he asked.

Kinney nodded. "Big-time."

Such as a drinking binge, Ron thought. He turned away and looked down the rutted road leaving the park. He saw the twinkle of blue strobes approaching in the distance.

"Get on the radio and tell everyone to respond Code Two. I don't want to crank this guy any tighter than he is."

Kinney did as asked, and they both watched the strobes wink out moments later, while the headlights kept bouncing toward them over the uneven ground.

Klesczewski didn't look at Kinney as he continued, "As soon as everyone gets here, I want those smaller tire spike kits quietly placed under both Purvis cars, all other trailers within easy shooting range evacuated, and a perimeter established and sealed."