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  There was something eerie about this bank-robbery call-out. Fortunately, the squad had been downtown today, and so only minutes had elapsed before they had all piled into the van equipped with communications equipment, weapons and heavy-duty tools they might need. But a year ago, this very team had been busy serving a high-risk warrant in a high-crime neighborhood when the call-out had come for help at the Crestmoor State Bank. Matt’s buddy, Scott Meyer, had been in the neighborhood and was the first to respond to the patrol officer’s call. But without the rest of the SWAT team, he had been shot with a .38-caliber bullet in the head and died instantly. The robbers got away.

  Now the adrenaline flowed, sharpening all Matt’s senses. He was never so alert as just before a call-out, when he knew that split-second timing could mean life or death.

  “We don’t know how many perpetrators are in there,” said Commander John Udal, a fortyish man with sharp, decisive features. Matt trusted him implicitly. With his twenty years of experience and even-handed leadership, the whole team had come to trust and admire him. Commander Udal didn’t give orders unless they were well thought out.

  Udal continued the briefing as the van rolled along the street. “No time to rehearse the assault. Patrol cars are already covering the inner perimeter. Captain McAllister jumped the gun. He’s already talking to the perp who seems to be in charge in there.”

  Udal frowned at Juergen Biggs, the SWAT team’s negotiator. “If he hadn’t blown it, we might have had a chance of persuading the perpetrators to release their hostages and come on out.”

  “How many hostages?” asked Matt.

  “Three women. And there’s already been gunfire. We don’t know if any of the hostages have been hurt.”

  Matt stuffed his gun back into the holster strapped to his right thigh and placed extra ammo in a pocket of his load-bearing vest. His energy level and heightened perceptions went into overdrive. He’d been chosen for this prestigious but demanding job because he had the skills and agility. If a little anger surfaced when he knew he was about to face criminals, so be it. Anger that lawbreakers endangered the lives of innocent bystanders kept his attitude balanced toward the use of deadly force when it was necessary.

  “Forrest,” said Commander Udal. “You and Hobbs will be the first entry team if the hostages haven’t been released by the time we get there.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Matt. He and Hobbs leaned over the blueprints and followed the commander’s finger tracings as he deployed the rest of the team.

  “Seeing as how we don’t know the positions of the perpetrators and the hostages,” said Udal, “stun grenades will be in order.”

  Matt nodded. Stun grenades, or “flash-bangs,” as they called them, were less-lethal distractions used to create noise and smoke to allow the entry team to get inside and make a rescue before the perpetrators could fire at them. There was still some risk that the grenades, loaded with flash powder and low explosive, could injure. But it was a calculated risk. The grenades would daze and disorient the perpetrators, giving the entry team the precious seconds they would need.

  “We’re going in this side door, then,” said Matt.

  “Right. McAllister has them busy enough at the front door.” Commander Udal looked at Roland Baker, the team’s sniper. Roland, a tall, quiet man with an angular jaw and calm blue eyes, was Matt’s trusted friend.

  “There won’t be time to set you up for observation. We’ll try to get you to the roof of the bank before we go in so you can cover in case of a getaway attempt. But I won’t give the order to fire if any innocent bystanders are in the way.”

  Roland nodded. The sniper had to be the most stable of the entire team. He never fired without the green light from the commander.

  They felt the van round a corner and quietly pull up at a curb behind a small, two-story bank that overlooked a busy street this side of Cherry Creek. So far, they were still incognito, but not for long. This side of Speer Boulevard, the quiet old neighborhood with brick 1920s bungalows and a couple of modern high-rises a block or so away, buzzed with curious onlookers.

  Matt groaned, ran a hand through his sandy blond hair and shook his head. “Why can’t people stay indoors when there’s a threat?”

  “Don’t know,” answered Hobbs. “Maybe they want to catch a flying bullet. Never made any sense to me.”

  Commander Udal ordered some of the rest of the team to clear the area around the bank, getting the bystanders out of the way before they made their entry. Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw a Channel 7 News truck arrive. Another headache. Though the Denver Police Department had a pretty good relationship with the press, it was still tough to make sure they didn’t broadcast the SWAT team’s deployment, providing a picture of their efforts to any perpetrators who might be watching a television inside.

  Matt had to hold his irritation for the press in check. Instead, he concentrated on his job as they received last-minute orders from Commander Udal and checked the ear-pieces attached to portable radios in the pouches of their vests, through which they would keep the commander updated as to what they found inside.

  Matt and the rest of the team sprang stealthily into action. The back doors of the van swung open, and the first man leaped out and sprinted across the street. He swung a grappling hook attached to a knotted nylon rope upward to catch securely on the roof. Scarcely had it caught when the lightest man on the team pulled himself upward, hand over hand, using his feet on the brick wall for added leverage. As soon as he was on top, he made sure the line was secure and Roland, the sniper, followed.

  Matt and Hobbs hightailed it across the street, crouching against the brick wall on either side of the door. Every nerve came alive in Matt’s body in the heat of the excitement. In the split second following the flash-bang, the perps inside would be ordered to drop their weapons and put their hands up. Should they fail to do so, and Matt had to shoot, the lives of whoever was inside would depend on the accuracy of his aim. Every fiber of his nervous system was charged, and his mind was keenly prepared to take in the scene instantly and respond. At least Brad McAllister and his flashing red-and-blue lights ought to be keeping the perps distracted for a moment longer while the rest of the SWAT team was deployed.

  The grenade thrower was ready to slide in the side door ahead of them, toss the grenade and dive. He took his position and nodded to Matt, who spoke into the radio to their commander.

  “Entry team ready, sir,” he said. Then he tucked the radio back into its pouch. Hobbs gave him a quick nod from the other side of the door from where he would play his part in their well-choreographed entry.

  “On my signal,” said Udal into his ear.

  THE ROBBERS ARGUED as Tracy and Carrie tried to help Amanda. She looked deathly pale, her mouth slack, her eyelids drooping. Tracy felt for her pulse. It was weak, and her skin was clammy. She moved around to cradle Amanda’s head in her lap. The robber with the phone paced back toward them. Tracy saw him look at Carrie, who pleaded to him, “She’s badly hurt. She needs a doctor.”

  The robber crouched down beside them to remove his mask and talk to Carrie while Tracy gently tried to feel Amanda’s head to see how serious the blow had been. The head wound was bleeding, and there could be internal injuries. It scared her, but at the same time she used all the first-aid training she knew to try to be effective.

  She was dimly aware of the dark-haired robber talking. Then he moved away and talked on the phone some more. Without his mask, Tracy could see that he wore his hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “He’s got to get her out of here,” Tracy said. “Amanda needs a doctor. She’s going into shock.”

  Amanda’s lips moved as if she were trying to speak. Her eyebrows drew down, then she groaned and her eyelids fluttered open. Her pupils were dilated.

  “What should we do?” Carried asked.

  “Keep her flat,” said Tracy. “Since it’s a head injury, we shouldn’t try to raise her feet.”

  “There must b
e something else,” said Carrie.

  “We need to keep her warm. She needs to conserve her body heat. And loosen her clothing. It will help her circulation.”

  Carrie peeled off her own jacket and tucked the material over Amanda’s upper torso. Tracy looked around for something to put under Amanda, as well. Carrie rose to her feet.

  “Dallas.” Tracy heard Carrie call one of the robbers by his name. “We need you.”

  Tracy drew in a sharp breath as the injured robber on the floor aimed his weapon at Carrie. “Sit down and shut up,” he said firmly.

  The robber called Dallas strode across the floor toward Carrie, as if they knew each other. “What is it?”

  The two of them exchanged a few words about Amanda needing to be covered for warmth, then he took off his black windbreaker and hunkered down to place the jacket over Amanda. Tracy instinctively recoiled. He withdrew his hand and gave the windbreaker to Carrie instead.

  “It should only be a few more minutes,” he told them.

  What was going on here? How was Carrie able to carry on with this stranger as if they knew each other?

  Carrie spread the windbreaker around Amanda as the robber walked away, again talking into the phone.

  “Do you think he’s right?” Tracy asked. “Will we be out of here soon?”

  “I hope so.” Carrie seemed to concentrate on Amanda. “How do you know all this first-aid stuff?”

  Tracy shrugged off-handedly. “When you have a sick kid, it only makes sense to know as many emergency techniques as possible. I took some classes.”

  Tracy suspected that Carrie was trying to keep her mind off the danger, but she wasn’t fooled. She changed the subject. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Sure.”

  Tracy hesitated before asking such a big favor, but they were in a tight spot. If she were going to speak, it had to be now.

  She drew a big breath. “You and Jennifer have gotten really close.”

  Carrie gave a desperate smile. “She’s a good kid. Smart, too.”

  Tracy reached out and squeezed Carrie’s arm. “Carrie, if I don’t get out of here alive, I want you to take care of Jennifer. Don’t let her go to her grandfather.”

  “Stop thinking like that,” said Carrie. She squeezed Tracy’s hand and glanced toward the center of the room, as if keeping an eye on what was happening with the robbers. “You’ll get out of here alive. We all will.”

  “But if I don’t...” She forced Carrie’s attention back to her and looked intently into the other woman’s gray eyes. “I want Jennifer to be raised with love, and I know you love her. Please promise me you’ll take care of her.”

  She saw the hesitation flicker in Carrie’s eyes, but she continued her plea desperately, “Please, Carrie. You know Jennifer’s grandfather wasn’t close to Scott, for reasons I don’t quite understand, and I don’t want her poisoned against her father. He was a good man. I’m afraid her grandfather will poison her against me, too.”

  Carrie gave her a doubtful look. “Jennifer’s smarter than that.”

  Amanda stirred, and Tracy returned her attention to the injured bank president. Beside her, she heard Carrie murmur, “I can’t promise anything.”

  Amanda was trying to speak. Tracy leaned her head closer, her long, curling auburn hair falling forward as she strained to listen.

  “What did you say?” asked Tracy.

  “I’ll look after...Jennifer.” Amanda drew a ragged breath. “I won’t let her forget...you love her.”

  Tears sprang to Tracy’s eyes, and she glanced at Carrie, whose own eyes were glistening. She didn’t want to believe that any of them was going to die. But in that moment, the three women’s hearts reached out to touch each other in a way that was deeply moving.

  Then the moment was lost as the robber with the dark brown ponytail made a dive toward them from the far end of the teller counter.

  “Get down!” he ordered. “Cover your heads.”

  His body shielded them, and Tracy ducked. A deafening explosion rocked the room, followed by the sound of shattered and tinkling glass. The other two robbers returned a barrage of fire, and terror flooded Tracy as she crouched beside Amanda, clutching the injured woman on the floor.

  The first robber had thrown himself across Carrie, but now sprang up and scooped Amanda into his arms. Out of the corner of her eye, Tracy saw Carrie relieve the robber of the gun he’d taken from the conference room downstairs. Her gun, Scott’s weapon, the one that had been in her own safe-deposit box.

  “Open the front door,” the robber ordered Carrie.

  Carrie got up and opened the door facing Speer Boulevard, the street that bordered Cherry Creek. She heard Carrie calling out, “Don’t shoot. We’re hostages. Don’t shoot.”

  Behind her, from the far side of the bank lobby, Tracy heard a voice shout, “Drop your weapons.”

  She turned, recognizing that voice. But smoke from the explosion stung her eyes and she rubbed them, unable to see.

  Shots exploded. Tracy ducked, feeling blindly along the teller counter in the direction of sunlight coming from the front door.

  The robber carried Amanda out and Tracy followed, numb and blinded by the hot July sunlight. The robber placed Amanda on the grass. In the sun, Tracy could see the ugly wound on her temple even more clearly and started toward her.

  In the corners of her vision, she saw more black-jumpsuited, armed men she recognized as being from the Denver SWAT team. Everything erupted into confusion. She thought she heard someone call out to her, “I’m sorry.”

  Then she saw the robber twist Carrie’s arm around her back, forcing her to drop the unloaded gun to the grass. Carrie winced but didn’t struggle as he grasped her around the waist and held a gun to her temple. Tracy gasped and half rose to her feet, her adrenaline pumping hard.

  “She’s dead if anyone makes a move,” the robber shouted.

  From within the bank, more gunfire erupted and Tracy crouched toward Amanda again, more to have someone to hold on to than to be able to help her. The fight wasn’t over, and they were in the open now. She glanced around for cover, but there was nothing. Even the bushes were a good five yards away.

  Carrie was being dragged away by the robber, who was calling out that he would shoot her if anyone came any closer. The SWAT team would only shoot as a last resort, but she cringed at the danger. A stray bullet could be deadly. Another heavily armed SWAT team cop kicked open the front door and entered the bank.

  The robber dragging Carrie got her to a black motorcycle and pushed her onto the back as he climbed onto the front. Tracy’s heart beat even harder. A familiar figure came out of the bank and crouched two car lengths away. Tracy’s pulse raced with new hope and fear. She knew she’d heard him inside. He must have gone out again when he saw the robber taking a hostage with him.

  If anyone could save Carrie, it was Matt Forrest, who was in peak physical condition and highly trained. His sandy blond hair and tanned face contrasted with the sturdy black jumpsuit and vest. His tight, muscular physique was poised, ready to spring. Automatically, she glanced behind him to see who was covering his approach.

  But the motorcycle roared to life before Matt could reach them. She caught a glimpse of Carrie’s white face just before they screeched away. Tracy’s heart crashed into her ribs as some of the police fired at the getaway vehicle.

  “They’ll hit Carrie,” she cried out, wondering who was stupid enough to fire at an open motorcycle with a hostage on it. The life of a hostage was supposed to be the first priority in any situation.

  Then she was aware of the acrid smell of smoke and blood as the sound of gunfire stopped. In another moment, the doors to the bank opened and four black-clad SWAT team officers led out the other two robbers, disarmed and handcuffed and looking sullen. Then the medics carried in a stretcher, presumably for the injured security guard.

  She felt dizzy as someone nearby said, “It’s over.”

  Matt got up from his crouched posi
tion near the cars and stared straight at Tracy. The black utility trousers were stuffed into heavy laced boots. He wasted no time in striding across the grass toward her, fastening the safety catch and shoving his pistol back into its holster as he moved. In that moment, the past flooded back full force to hit her. She felt frozen in time, one irrational thought running rampant through her mind.

  She would never be out of danger.

  IN HIS EARPIECE, Matt heard his commander inform them that the building had been cleared and two of the perps had been apprehended. Patrol cars had roared off after the escaped robber and the hostage. Paramedics were working on the wounded. Matt crossed the grass to where Tracy Meyer knelt beside one of the victims.

  Still keyed up from the precision assault, Matt felt his throat tighten. The blood still pulsed in his ears. No one had told him Tracy Meyer was inside the bank. He stopped a small distance from where the medics were transferring the woman on the grass onto a stretcher from the ambulance. Tracy only backed off from the patient when the medics took over. Then she stood slowly and raised her wide-eyed gaze to meet his. She looked so vulnerable in the bright sunlight, he felt a wave of emotion engulf him. He wanted to reach over and tuck her into his arms to comfort her. But he also saw the iron will flash from the depths of those dark brown eyes and knew of the inner strength she’d had to rely on this past year.

  “Tracy,” he said hoarsely. “Are you all right?”

  She seemed to waver in the aftereffects, and then he moved over to her, steadying her with his hands on her chilled arms. The color was returning to her face, and he felt her sway in his grasp. She nodded her head, the thick auburn hair tangled around her face. A hand went to her face and then down again as she looked deep into his eyes again. He knew what she was thinking.

  He felt the old simmering anger as he saw the moisture at the corners of her eyes. She was thinking about Scott, shot dead a year ago. Damn! Why did this have to happen to her? To reopen the old wound.