The man, Jeff Simmons, stared at his wife, Claire, the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes upon. He was a genius computer programmer who’d developed several unique health-monitoring applications, including the first heartbeat monitor app for smartphones. Claire was a professional singer and dancer, currently performing at the National Theater in Jersey Boys, which was on a hiatus due to a stage reconstruction issue. Jeff had been in DC for a meeting with a software company, and he’d stopped for a cup of coffee at a Starbucks. The beautiful, angry woman in front of him had been furiously struggling with her iPhone, looking for the display brightness setting, which Apple kept hidden from its customers, and Jeff had offered to help. For reasons unexplained, the woman had struck up a conversation with him, and they’d shared a cup of coffee, bonding over the nuances of smartphone technology, as well as Broadway show tunes, which Jeff loved.

But all of that was about to be over. At least Claire will live. “I love you, baby,” Jeff said out loud, his words echoing as a commitment to her that would live on long after he ceased to.

Barrett stepped to the side of the man, straightened his right arm, and aimed the Glock at just above his ear. There was no need to traumatize everyone with an exit wound to the face. The people gasped in horror, cries and whimpers catching fire. He moved his finger off the trigger guard to the trigger and started to squeeze.

“I wouldn’t pull that trigger, not if you ever want to see the laptop again,” a disembodied voice said from his radio.

Barrett stopped the increasing tension in his finger and held fire, the Glock still pointed at the man’s head. He raised the radio to his lips. “Well, well. I thought for sure that our Good Samaritan wasn’t going to make an appearance. Cutting it a little close, aren’t you? This poor man was about to make his gorgeous wife a gorgeous widow.”

“Lower the weapon, or I destroy the computer. I don’t care what’s on it, but obviously, you do. And if I do an Office Space number on it, then you no longer have a reason to be here. You have until the count of five.” There was a brief silence, followed by, “Five . . . four . . . three . . .”

A swelling rage threatened to blind Barrett to reason, but the voice of his employer, his friend, brought him back to the periphery of what passed for sanity in his mind. If you do it, make it count. Make them remember what happens if they don’t comply.

Barrett lowered the weapon.

And just as quickly, he raised it back up and fired point-blank into the back of his hostage’s head. The man’s body fell forward as a shriek of pure anguish rose from his wife.