Give him the power, McBride thought. He’s overwhelmed, surrounded. Give him some choice, something small. It’s you and him against them … Frightened men look for allies. Selmani would know McBride was the enemy, but the fear in him would win out. Put out your hand, he’ll take it …
Taking care to align himself as Scanlon instructed, McBride started forward.
A hand, ghostly white in the darkness, emerged from the door’s gap and waved him forward.
McBride kept coming. He was ten feet from the steps when a voice called, “Stop there. No closer.”
McBride stopped.
The door swung open, revealing the figure. It started forward. There was something odd about the gait — unsteady, shambling. McBride looked down at the legs; there were four of them. Walking in lock step, his left forearm wrapped around her waist, Selmani and Mrs. Root stepped onto the porch.
Smart, McBride thought. Very damned smart.
Selmani had fitted his hostage with a hood large enough to cover both of their heads. Joined with her, Selmani had made himself an impossible target. His right hand, resting on Mrs. Root’s shoulder, held a semiautomatic pistol. The barrel was pressed into what McBride guessed was the side of her head.
“You are Joe?” Selmani said, his voice muffled by the fabric.
“Yes, I’m Joe. What should I call you?”
“No games. You already know my name.”
“You’re right, I apologize.”
“How many men are with you?”
McBride offered a sheepish smile. “Too many for my comfort. Listen, Hekuran, I’m not going to lie to you. You’re in a tough situation. There’s a lot of nervous folks out there. I’m hoping you and I can figure out something that doesn’t get anyone hurt.”
“Such as?”
“First of all, do you have enough water? Food?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need medical attention? Are either of you hurt?”
“No.”
“Good. Can you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“I’d like your permission to speak to Mrs. Root. Her husband is very worried. If I could tell him I’d heard her voice—”
“No.”
“It would mean a lot to—”
“I said no!”
McBride held up his hands. “Okay, okay. This can’t be easy for you. What can I do to help?”
Selmani was silent for few seconds; his feet shuffled. “Help me? You’re FBI.”
“Actually, no, I’m a civilian. Truth is, all these guns scare the heck out of me. I’m sure you feel the same way. You’re out here alone, God knows where your friends are … Maybe if you and I can talk, we can figure something out.”
“You want this woman back, I want something in return.”
“What’s that?”
“Five million dollars in bearer bonds and transportation out of the country.”
Interesting, McBride thought. Ransom demands this late in a kidnapping were rare; moreover, Selmani’s profile — all the factors that made him a terrorist in Washington’s eyes — suggested money was an unlikely motivation.
“Is that what you want,” McBride said, “or is that what you’ve been instructed to ask for?”
Selmani didn’t answer.
“The way I see it, you’re the one taking all the risks here. We know there were others at the Root house. Why aren’t they here now?”
“Shut up.”
“Maybe you should start thinking about what’s best for you. I can help you. I can talk to the FBI. I think they’ll listen to me.”
“No, no. I would go to jail.”
Atta boy … think about it. “I won’t lie to you: You’re right, you’ll probably have to spend some time in jail. But there’s no reason you should pay for all this yourself. Hey, I’ve made plenty of mistakes in my life, so I know what it’s like. Let me help you. Let Mrs. Root go and I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
Selmani was silent for five seconds. Then, abruptly, his arm tightened around Mrs. Root’s waist and he took a step backward. “You are lying. You don’t want to help me. Without this hood, they would have already shot me. I know they are out there, I know they are!”
“No one wants to see you hurt. Let her go, give up, and you’ll be fine. You have my word.”
“You’re lying!” Selmani backed up another step.
“No, Hekuran, I’m—”
“No more! Five million dollars in bearer bonds and a helicopter! You have two hours—”
“Two hours isn’t long enough—”
“Two hours!”
“Please, at least let Mrs. Root talk—”
“Go away! Two hours!”
Dragging Mrs. Root along, Selmani backed through the door and kicked it shut.
Back at the command post, McBride lowered himself to the ground and plucked the earpiece from his ear. His hair dripped with sweat. He accepted a bottle of water from Oliver and downed half of it.
“He’s thinking about it, Collin.”
“I know.”
“He’s scared. He wants out. Give me a little—”
“I can’t, Joe.”
“He’ll give up, I guarantee it.”
“That’s not how Washington sees it. We’re going in.”
“The hell with them. You’re here, you saw it.”
Oliver frowned, looked away.
McBride opened his mouth to speak again, then stopped. Oliver had no choice. If he refused to give the order, he’d be relieved and Scanlon would be given the go-ahead anyway. Oliver’s career would be over.
McBride turned to Scanlon. “You saw the hood?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t get a shot.”
“Not a head shot, no. But if we can get him back out on the porch, we can—”
“You mean if I can get him on the porch.”
“—one of my guys can put a bullet under his armpit. It’ll take out his spine and heart. He’ll be dead before he hits the ground.”
“Jesus Christ. And if you miss?”
“We won’t.”
Fearing that Selmani had laid more trip wires, the snipers took their time getting into their new positions. Their aiming point on Selmani’s torso would be the diameter of a coffee cup, the HRT commander explained. The right shot would be instantly fatal; anything else might give Selmani a chance to kill Mrs. Root before the rest of the team was able to rush him.
Two snipers were stationed thirty yards on either side of the porch, while a third, covered in a camouflage ghillie suit, lay in the brush in line with the front door. He would be McBride’s cover should Selmani turn the gun in his direction.
Small comfort, McBride thought, measuring your life by fractions of a second … praying your guy is faster on the draw. On this point, his sniper seemed supremely confident: “If he even twitches the gun in your direction, I’ll take his arm off at the elbow.”
Once his shooters were happy with their positions and lines, Scanlon ordered a scout to the shack’s rear wall. One of the snipers had spotted a loose plank through which Scanlon hoped to snake a flexi-cam. Though Selmani had not carried the detonator during his meeting with McBride, Scanlon wanted to be doubly certain he left it behind when he stepped onto the porch this time.
Covering the scout, one of the reserve snipers transmitted images from his scope to Scanlon’s monitor. Oliver and McBride watched the screen as the man inched his way through the brush toward the wall. Ten feet from it he stopped, dug in his pack momentarily, then started forward again.
The radio crackled to life: “HRT, this is comms,” the voice said. Scanlon’s communication people were parked in a van on the dirt road across the inlet.