“Anything on the kids?”
Castro leaned closer to his screen. “Nope. Just the wife.”
Matt nodded. “Good. I can use that. He doesn’t really want to hurt those kids.”
The captain pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right, what’s this idea of yours?”
“We get the wife on video. We can rehearse her. Keep it short and control every word, every expression. Send in a tape.”
“What’ll that do, besides maybe set him off like a roman candle?”
“I can trade the tape for one of the kids.”
“Still leaves him with a hostage.”
“One less than he had.”
The captain’s frown said he wasn’t buying it. Matt couldn’t blame him. But this H.T. was dangerously close to flaming out already, and as it stood, they had no alternatives if that happened.
Matt looked at Castro. “How many VCRs in the house?”
The intelligence officer reached for a phone. After a brief conversation, he looked up, grim. “One. In the front room.”
Matt glanced at the house on the overhead video monitor. The front room had lots of nice big windows for the snipers. And the blinds were open in all of them.
His stomach did a neat tuck-and-roll.
Sometimes it was necessary for the negotiator to set up the tactical solution, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He’d been working crisis scenes for ten years and never lost a hostage—or a hostage taker—yet. He didn’t plan to start today.
“Do it,” the captain said, then nodded at the tactical liaison. “Tell your team to get ready.”
“Cap.” Matt spoke up before the tactical officer exited. “If I get the kids out, we negotiate the H.T. as long as it takes, right? Give him a chance to end this the right way.”
“You want this son of a bitch out in one piece, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” He always formed some sort of bond with his H.T.s, but the connection with James Hampton was especially strong. Matt saw too much of his own life in the man’s situation. Heard his own frustration in the man’s words.
“The man’s a wife-beater.”
“Last I heard, we don’t shoot people for that.”
Sighing, the captain shook his head. “You get those kids out, you can talk to him till Christmas for all I care. He goes off on them, though—” He nodded at the tactical officer. “Brooks takes over.” Then to Matt he said, “We’ll have the tape in ten.”
Back in the negotiator’s room, Matt pulled on his headset and sat down. With a deep breath, he signaled his backup that he had control now. “All right, James. We got your wife. Here’s what we’re going to do.” He explained how they would send a videotape to the front door via robot.
“There’s just one thing,” Matt added nonchalantly. “We’re going to need something from you in return.”
“What the—?”
“You’re going to have to give us one of the kids.”
The H.T.’s breathing shifted to a faster gear.
“Come on, James. I’m trying to help you. Work with me.”
James hiccuped, and Matt knew the crying had started again. Hang in there, man.
“It’s a trick.”
“No trick. Just a trade. Send out one of the kids, and you get the tape. You want to see what your wife says, don’t you?”
The H.T. whimpered. Matt let him think.
“All…all right.”
“Good, James. Great. We’re setting up the robot now.”
Giving him the thumbs-up, Todd Thurman switched the phone to mute. “You’re one cool dawg, Burkett. You got him.”
Matt sat back, his heart kicking painfully. He wasn’t so sure he had anyone.
His skin prickled with nervous sweat. He had to up the stakes now, while he was still in the game. He cleared his throat and motioned for Thurman to open the microphone again. “Which kid are you going to send out, James?”
“I—I don’t know.”
The video monitor in the corner of the room showed the robot rolling up the front walk. About twenty feet out, the cop at the controls stopped the radio-controlled ’bot, waiting for their payoff.
“Which one do you love the most? Jasmine—Jazzie? Or James Junior? Your only son, or your little girl? Which one deserves to live? You choose.”
Thurman slapped the mute button on the phone controls. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting the kids out of there. Both of them.”
“You’re gonna lose him.”
“I’m not going to lose anyone,” Matt exploded. “Now turn the damn telephone back on.”
His blood screaming in his veins, Matt waited until the light blinked green. “James, you still there?”
“I—I can’t do it. I can’t decide.”
“One of them has to go.” Matt closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His throat felt as though it had been scraped raw. His head felt as if it was going to explode. “You have to choose. Which one lives, which one stays, and maybe dies?”
James sobbed into the phone.
“Unless you want to send them both out,” Matt suggested softly.
“Then I won’t have nobody. I won’t have nobody, man.”
“You’ll have me. I’m not going anywhere.”
The H.T. made a sound like a trapped animal. Wounded. Dying. The phone clattered as if he’d dropped it.
“James? James!” Matt yelled, his gaze glued to the video monitor. His body braced for the blast of gunfire.
He’d pushed too hard. God, he’d pushed too hard, too fast.
But there were no gunshots. An eerie silence descended on the scene as parabolic microphones across the street from the H.T.’s house picked up the creak of hinges. Time stopped as the front door swung slowly open.
Eight-year-old Jasmine Hampton stood in the doorway, cheeks streaked with tears. Her brother nudged her from behind, and they stepped out onto the porch, blinking like owls in the bright sunlight. Their father stood behind them, a dim silhouette
