into one bedroom and told his wife to call the police.
Bobbie’s radio crackled. “No go. I’m coming out,” vibrated across the airwaves.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered as crisis negotiator Sergeant Paul York exited the house and double-timed it to her side of the police barrier. York was a small, wiry man of five-eight or so, the same height as her. His less intimidating size and kind, calming presence made him damned good at his job as a facilitator of nonviolent resolutions. Those same traits, however, belied his unquestionable ability to take charge of a situation and physically contain the threat when the need arose.
“What happened?” she demanded, bracing her hands on her hips. She was not going to have a hostage die on her watch. The fear she refused to allow a foothold kept reminding her that these hostages were children.
This wouldn’t be the first time you allowed a child to die.
Not going to happen today.
“He won’t talk to me.” York tugged at his black tie, his gray shirt still crisp despite the rising humidity and immeasurable frustration. “His wife refuses to leave the house as long as the kids are in there.”
“Who can blame her?” Bobbie exhaled a blast of exasperation. Before York had arrived on the scene, she’d spoken to Mrs. Evans by phone. Anna Evans insisted she had no idea what had set off her husband. To her knowledge, he had never owned a weapon, much less used one. He was a CPA at Latimer, Latimer and Burton, for Christ’s sake. He’d worked there since he graduated from Vanderbilt two decades ago. His wife was completely stunned by his actions.
“Did he give you any idea what he wants?” Bobbie needed something here. Evans surely had a goal he hoped to attain or a statement to make. How the hell could a purportedly humble CPA cause this damned much trouble?
“He wouldn’t say a word.” York’s lips flattened as he shook his head. “Not a single word.”
SWAT Commander Zeke Miller held up his hands as if he’d experienced an epiphany. “We’re wasting time. He could kill those children while we’re standing out here with our thumbs up our asses. It’s time we went in.”
Bobbie rolled her eyes. What was he thinking? The polar opposite of York, Miller was a big, muscular guy with an ego to match. His reputation for playing hard and fast was well-known, but this was her crime scene, and she wasn’t going the guns-blazing route. At least not yet.
“And get those kids killed for sure?” Bobbie argued, ignoring the fear gnawing at the edge of her bravado. “Evans has them standing around him in a huddle. Your guys can’t get a clear shot at him. A flash bang could freak him out and prompt a shooting spree. And you want to go charging in there?” She folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, daring him to challenge her assessment. “Is it just me, or is there something seriously wrong with that scenario?”
Miller glowered at her, but neither he nor York had a ready response for her assessment. There was no easy way to do this, and everyone present understood that unfortunate fact.
“Where the hell is Newton?” Miller demanded. “We need a senior detective on the scene. Are you even cleared for a situation like this, Gentry?”
Despite the fury his words ignited, Bobbie smiled. This chauvinistic hothead was not going to get the better of her when four children’s lives depended on her staying calm and collected. “My partner’s daughter is getting married this weekend, so he’s not here. You’ve got me, and I’m as fit for duty as you, Miller. Deal with it.”
His arrogant sneer warned he wasn’t going to let it go so easily.
“We got movement at the front door!” a uniform shouted.
Renewed adrenaline rushing through her veins, Bobbie turned toward the house as the front door slowly opened. Please let it be the children coming out. As much as she wanted everyone present to believe she was as strong as she once was and that she had everything under control...doubt nagged at her. What if she failed? What if someone died—again—because of her mistakes?
No looking back. Focus, Bobbie.
Barefoot and wearing a white terry-cloth robe, Anna Evans stepped cautiously onto the narrow porch, her hands raised high and her red hair tousled as if she hadn’t combed it since climbing out of bed. Her face was as white as the robe she wore. She was immediately surrounded by Montgomery PD uniforms and ushered across the street.
“One less potential victim,” Bobbie muttered. What the devil was this guy doing? He’d made no demands. He refused to interact with the negotiator. Any time a perp took a hostage and waved around a weapon, he wanted something.
The distant ache in her skull that had started the minute she’d received the call expanded into a dull throb. She resisted the urge to yank free the clasp holding her long brown hair off her shoulders so she could massage the pain away. No need to illustrate to all present that her headaches were still around. The whole department already watched her every move to see if she would crack under the stress. No matter that she had been back to work for four weeks without falling down on the job, she was still the detective who had shattered like delicate, handblown glass thrown against a wall seven months ago. The whole damned world knew that a couple of surgeons and shrinks, as well as a good half of the year, had been required to put her back together again.
Stay sharp, Bobbie. No letting the past intrude.
Once behind the police barricade, the uniforms released Anna Evans, and she almost collapsed on the pavement before they could catch hold of her again.
“We need a medic,” Bobbie shouted. She moved toward the woman. “Are you injured, Mrs. Evans?”
She shook her head, her eyes red and swollen from hours of crying. “Are you Detective Gentry?”
“Yes, ma’am. We spoke on the phone a little while ago.” The woman appeared unharmed and reasonably composed for a terrified mother. Let this be a good sign.
Anna Evans drew in a shuddering breath. “He says he’ll let the children go if you—” her pleading gaze latched on to Bobbie’s “—come inside and talk to him.”
“I can do that.” The sooner those kids were out of harm’s—
“The hell you say!” Miller roared. “That’s all we need is another hostage in there!”
“Hold up, Miller.” York turned to Bobbie. “We can do this,” he offered in the modulated tone negotiators were trained to use. “I’ll go in with you.”
While Miller launched another protest, Anna Evans hugged her arms around her trembling body and moved her head adamantly from side to side. “He said you have to come alone, Detective Gentry. Unarmed and alone.”
“Not going to happen, Bobbie,” York stated, his voice hard now. “You’re—”
Bobbie held up a hand for both men to shut up. “Did he say anything else, Mrs. Evans?”
Fresh tears welled in her puffy eyes. She shook her head. “Just that he...he would let the children go. Please.” She wrung her hands together in front of her as if she intended to pray. “Don’t let my babies get hurt.”
Bobbie removed her service weapon from its holster
