The Blue Nowhere

look.”
    FROM: DOJ TAC OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.
    TO: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA
    RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01
    
    The man said, “It’s the right number. I checked.”
    Little: “Send it again.”
    Once more the agent typed and hit ENTER.
    Another delay. Then:
    FROM: DOJ TAC OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.
    TO: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA
    RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01
    
    Little pulled his black hood off and wiped his face. Christ, what was this?
    He grabbed the phone and called the FBI agent who handled the territory near the San Pedro military reserve, thirty miles away. The agent told him that there’d been no break-in or theft of weapons that afternoon. Little dropped the receiver into the cradle, staring at the screen.
    Steadman ran up to the door of the trailer. “What the hell’s going on, Mark? We’ve waited too long. If we’re going to hit them it’s gotta be now.”
    Little continued to gaze at the screen.
    
    “Mark, are we going? ”
    The commander glanced toward the house. By now there’d been enough of a delay that the occupants might have grown suspicious that the phones were out. Neighbors had probably called the local police about the troops in the neighborhood and reporters’ police scanners would have picked up the calls. Press helicopters might be on their way and there’d be live broadcasts from the choppers. The killers inside could be watching the accounts on TV in a few minutes.
    Suddenly a voice in the radio: “Alpha team leader one, this’s sniper three. One of the suspects’s on the front steps. White male, late twenties. Hands in the air. I have a shot-to-kill. Should I take it?”
    “Any weapons? Explosives?”
    “None visible.”
    “What’s he doing?”
    “Walking forward slowly. He’s turned around to show us his back. Still no weapons. But he could have something rigged under his shirt. I’ll lose the shot to foliage in ten seconds. Sniper two, pick up target when he’s past that bush.”
    “Roger that,” came the voice of another sniper.
    Steadman said, “He’s got a device on him, Mark. All the bulletins’ve said that’s what they’re going to do—take out as many of us as they can. This guy’ll set off the charge and the rest’ll come out the back door, shooting.”
    
    Mark Little said into his mike, “Bravo team leader two, order suspect onto the ground. Sniper two if he’s not face down in five seconds, take your shot.”
    “Yessir.”
    They heard the loudspeaker a moment later: “This is the FBI. Lie down and extend your arms. Now, now, now!”
    NO INFORMATION . . .
    The agent then called in, “He’s down, sir. Should we frisk and restrain?”
    Little thought of his wife and two children and said, “No, I’ll do it myself.” He said into the mike: “All teams, pull back to cover.”
    He turned to the communications officer. “Get me the deputy director in Washington.” Then he pointed a blunt finger at the conflicting messages—the go-ahead printout and the “no information” message on the computer screen. “And let me know exactly how the hell this happened.”

CHAPTER 00101110 / FORTY-SIX
    L ying on the grass, smelling dirt, rain, and the faint scent of lilac, Wyatt Gillette blinked as the searing spotlights focused on him. He watched an edgy young agent move cautiously toward him, pointing a very large gun at his head.
    The agent cuffed him and frisked him thoroughly, relaxing only when Gillette asked him to call a state trooper named Bishop, who could confirm that the FBI’s computer system had been hacked and that the people in the house weren’t the MARINKILL suspects.
    The agent then ordered Elana’s family out of the house. She, her mother and her brother walked slowly out onto the lawn, arms raised. They were searched and handcuffed and, though they weren’t treated roughly, it was clear from their grim faces that they were suffering nearly as much from indignity and terror as if they’d been physically injured.
    Gillette’s ordeal, though, was the worst and that had nothing to do with his treatment at the hands of the FBI; it was that he knew that the woman he loved was now gone from him forever. She’d seemed to be wavering