Christian understood and appreciated the gesture. It had happened before, that a hostage in similar straits had wigged out and made things difficult.

This was Willy’s moment to also volunteer to stay. He’d even anticipated it himself, almost heard his own voice issuing the predictable one-liner.

But he froze.

Joe, at the same moment, looked at him, instantly recognizing what was at stake. “Willy,” he said easily. “I don’t think Emma would appreciate your staying. I know what I said before, but this is an order: Leave. Now. Please.”

Willy felt almost ill, his body suddenly flooded with conflicting emotions. Joe had put his finger on it, as usual, and Willy, also predictably, had completely missed the obvious emotional weight of a parent’s commitment. He struggled to maintain a cool demeanor as he replied, “I’ll split the difference with you. I’ll be right outside, in the next room.” He gestured to the door.

Joe nodded and returned to Seamus.

Willy slipped out the door, turned the corner, and pressed his back against the wall, struggling to control his breathing.

One of the TAC team members placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll guide you out.”

“I’m staying,” Willy said without explanation.

The man caught his eye for a second, before dropping his hand and moving away. These situations bred odd reactions in people.

Joe was still on his chair, crowding the field. He raised his eyebrows at Christian Mock. “This all right with you? I don’t want to be in the way, but I’d like Seamus to know we’re in this together.”

“Yeah,” Seamus said softly, his situation once more clear to him. Gone was the distraction of discussing Shaw and the recent past. It was all about the here and now. For all of them.

Mock seamlessly slid into professional mode, gently and progressively exploring the wiring maze before him. Using his light, a dental mirror, even a tongue depressor once, probing with his bare hands, speaking regularly to Seamus and to his colleague in the van, he worked smoothly, carefully, and quietly to reverse engineer Shaw’s infernal machine. Wire by wire, one detonator at a time, he deconstructed it, often using a pair of sparkproof ceramic scissors. Throughout, he updated his audience on his headway, reassuring them as the challenge became increasingly less lethal.

This was no straightforward vest bomb. Even Joe could see that. In the same way that the house had been rigged with safe-arm devices and multiple redundancies, the envelope around Seamus was a road map of Shaw’s combination of sadism, control, and mad intelligence—commingled with his engineer’s knowledge of electronics and explosives. It was yet another example of how much could be missed in a police background check of a person’s history.

With all of Christian Mock’s poise and competence, he clearly was working at his outermost limits. Rather than a single bomb rigged to a trigger, this was layered, interconnected, and riddled with false leads and booby traps.

Mock was not alone in his tension. Seamus Kyle was running low on reserves. Despite the bomb tech’s display of calm self-assurance, and Joe’s ongoing, quiet, and distracting conversation, the young, fragmented, increasingly sweat-soaked subject of this attention was beginning to lose his composure. He had nothing to do except sit and wait for a split second’s insight—if he got even that—announcing the end of his life.