Finally he can’t stand it anymore. The water is thunderously loud as it jets from the sprinkler, but for some reason no one is coming to investigate. Parker edges open the workroom door, then ducks down behind the front counter. As he crawls out into the main part of the store, he nudges the fire extinguisher ahead of him. The little finger of his left hand looks like it might be broken. His butt is stiff and painful. His left eye throbs with the beat of his heart. Every part of his body complains.

Still on his knees, he peeks out the entrance of Van Duyn. The killers are all clustered at the gate, paying no attention to the hostages. Most of the hostages sit slumped on the floor, exhausted by the ordeal. A few are more alert and anxious, eyes darting, trying to figure out their next move.

“Kilo? Come in, Kilo. Do you copy?” Wolf says. “Over.” The strain in his voice tells Parker it’s not the first time he’s said those words.

When the killers’ mics crackle, they all jump. “This is Kilo,” a disembodied voice says. “Over.”

Across the hall, the back of the AT&T store is starting to fill with thick gray smoke. Parker catches a glimpse of the guy who works there, on his knees behind the counter, feeding the flames a stack of forms a few at a time. Looking at AT&T’s fire, Parker wishes he had let his smolder instead of forcing the sprinkler to go off. Even as smoke is starting to roll out of the store’s door, though, the killers are still focused on the voice of the man who must be their leader.

“How are things going at the airfield? Have our people gotten there yet?” Wolf asks. “Or the plane? Over.”

“The plane?” Kilo echoes. “You honestly believed there would be a plane? Tell me, do you also believe in the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus?”

After a second of shocked silence, the four killers all speak at once, swearing and demanding that he explain what he means.

Kilo’s voice cuts in, his calm tone a sharp contrast to that of the others. “Did you really think this whole thing was going to work? That the cops and the FBI were going to let you leave in a bus—a bus!—with a few dozen hostages? And then give you a plane and just let you fly away?” His laugh is showy, fake. “If so, then you guys are even dumber than I thought. There’s no way any of that is going to happen. You’re terrorists, even if you’re Americans. And the government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘you’?” Mole demands. “We’re in this together. If we’re terrorists, then you’re a terrorist.”