I was transported back to the opera house, to that hour when I’d been so sure we’d get him, and I felt again that excitement, that rising sense of oddly calm anticipation. Senses heightening, muscles tensing, pulse hitting a steady rhythm, sliding into that perfect zone.

In that hour at the window, I’d known who I hoped to find in my scope. Yet I never felt it. Too distant a target, too cerebral a goal. What I loved about distance shooting—that total control—also robbed me of this, that delicious moment of knowing that in a few minutes, I’d see my target’s face, hear his gasp of shock, smell his fear.

As a loose ladder rung creaked, I pictured him, frozen in midstep, the creak seeming to ring out like a gunshot. He’d listen for any responding sound from below, then start down again, slower now, testing each rung first. Finally, he’d reach the bottom. A few steps and he’d be at my door, turning the handle…

The soft click of the latch. Good. Now look out into the hall. Make sure it’s clear, then step out…oh, better close the door behind you.

Click.

Silence.

He was in the hall, looking, listening. No sign of the Feds—if they had a team camped out on this floor, he’d hear it; there was no need for them to be quiet when they were just pulling stakeout or sniper duty from a fifth-story window. Hearing nothing, Wilkes would start forward again, looking for the best window, which was right here, in my room.

I flexed my grip on my gun and smiled.

At least three minutes of silence passed. Still listening for an occupying force? Wilkes hadn’t struck me as the nervous type. Maybe the pressure was getting to him. Another two minutes, then a floorboard creaked. Still sneaking down the hall, expecting trouble?

Another creak. He’d be at my door in a few seconds…

Silence.

From my vantage point, I couldn’t miss seeing anyone passing the doorway. So where was he? Being cautious was one thing, but he was moving so slowly—

I stopped, imagining not Wilkes, but an officer from the security detail canvassing the building. But if Wilkes wasn’t in this hall, that meant Jack was in danger, down there trying to lure in a killer, confident that I was watching his back.

My gaze tripped between the window and the door. Just a few seconds. Let them pass the door and move on. Dear God, I hoped they moved on.

I watched the doorway, tensed for the first shadow. I lowered my gun barrel to leg height. No, too risky for an impulse shot. I might hit his femoral artery. A shoulder shot? That had been my first choice with Wilkes, but would I risk it on a cop? Could I even shoot one?