“That’s funny, because you sure seemed willing to draw the line differently when it came to Phil Grayson.”

  “I’m going to ignore that,” said the president. “You’re on your own this time.”

  “I’m losing my patience.”

  “Join the club.”

  “You’ve picked the wrong time to find a backbone.”

  The president walked around to the other side of his desk, where there was a framed photograph of his mother and father looking back at him.

  “Like I told you, Frank,” he said as he stepped toward the door, “I’m tired of you and everyone else telling me what to do. That’s the last I have to say about it.”

  The door to the executive suite opened, giving Harry a start. The president hung up his phone.

  “How long have you been standing there?” said the president.

  “Not long.”

  The president seemed unconvinced, but he stepped aside, allowed Harry to enter, and closed the door. He directed Harry to sit, which he did.

  “Let me ask you again,” said the president. “How long were you standing out there?”

  Harry shrugged. “Maybe a minute.”

  The president walked behind his desk and took a seat. He looked directly at Harry but said nothing for about sixty seconds, as if to make his point. Finally, he said, “A minute can be a very long time.”

  “Long enough, I suppose,” said Harry.

  The president leaned forward, his hands folded on top of the desk. “Long enough for what?”

  Harry also leaned forward in his chair—just enough to convey that he was not intimidated. Harry said, “Long enough to know that you were on the telephone with Frank Madera.”

  The president tightened his glare, but Harry didn’t flinch.

  “You said something about being tired,” said Harry. “And it had nothing to do with being sleepy.”

  “Look, I don’t know what you think you heard, but things are not always as they seem.”

  “You can say that again.”

  The president was silent.

  Harry said, “There’s something I want you to know, Mr. President.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I know so much more than you realize. Everyone from Marilyn Grayson to this Demetri character has pumped me full of suspicions.”

  “Well, you’re wrong if you think for one minute that—”

  “Please,” said Harry, halting him, “let me finish. There’s something else you need to know.”

  Harry leaned closer still, resting his forearms on the edge of the president’s desk.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of it. All I want is to get my son out of that newsroom alive. So I need you to tell me the truth. The whole ugly, stinking truth.”

  Chapter 53

  Jack felt Shannon’s body press against his. They were still seated on the floor in front of the news desk, and the cameraman was there, too. Pedro lay on his side next to Jack, coiled in the fetal position, recovering from the beating. He was so out of it that Demetri hadn’t even bothered to bind his wrists.

  “Do you see it?” Shannon whispered.

  She nuzzled against his chest, pretending to be asleep. Jack lowered his eyes. Tucked into her hair, the pointed metal nail file glistened beneath the studio lights.

  “Yes,” he whispered back.

  “Get it to Pedro,” she said.

  Jack glanced to his right. Pedro was conscious but grimacing in pain. “He’s no help,” said Jack.

  “Then cut yourself loose with it,” she whispered.

  It was a huge long shot, but fighting back seemed like their only option now, with Demetri at T-minus-ten-minutes to either going back on the air or killing his first hostage. Shannon leaned closer, and slowly Jack worked his jaw deep into Shannon’s big hair. It was sticky with a television dosage of extra-hold hair spray, and it smelled of tangerines or some other citrus-scented shampoo. Jack kept one eye on Demetri, who was across the set and sitting by the phone with Andie on speaker. The volume was high enough for Jack to hear her voice.

  “Keep talking to me, Demetri,” said Andie.

  Jack felt the metal file against his chin. He tightened his jaw and tried to slide it out, but it didn’t budge.

  “Can’t get it,” he whispered, and in that same instant, he wondered what he would do with it even if he got it. Cut himself loose—and then what? Strangle Demetri with his bare hands? Sneak up and slice open the jugular? Jab it into his eye orbit? Shove it into his ear? Those were bizarre thoughts for a lawyer to have, especially when up against a seasoned killer who had barely lost a step despite his age and injuries.

  “Use your teeth,” Shannon whispered.

  Jack tucked his jaw and tried to clench it, but Shannon had buried it so securely that not even a badger could have chewed it loose. Jack went for the lion-sized bite.

  “Ow!” said Shannon, as the nail file fell to the floor behind her.

  “Swyteck!” shouted Demetri.

  Jack started, his heart pounding, and Shannon jerked away from him.

  “How much time is left?” Demetri said.

  Jack could breathe again. For a moment, he’d thought Demetri had noticed that they were plotting something. Jack checked the clock on the wall.

  “Eight minutes,” said Jack.

  “Liar,” said Demetri, and then he addressed Andie on the speakerphone. “By my count, you’re down to six minutes to get me back on the air, Henning.”

  “We might need more time,” said Andie.

  “You’re not gonna get it.”

  “Saying things like that only makes it harder for me to keep the SWAT out of this.”

  “That’s why you get paid the big bucks,” said Demetri.

  Jack felt the nail file sticking him in the thumb. Shannon had it in her hands behind her back and passed it to him. Jack grasped it and worked it around in his fingers until the tip pointed to the knotted cord that bound his wrists.

  Andie was still talking on the speakerphone. “You have to keep working with me, Demetri. It would help matters on this end if I could hear the hostages’ voices.”

  “You just heard your boyfriend. We’re on speaker.”

  “You must be too far away from him. I couldn’t pick up his voice. That makes everyone on this end of the line nervous. They wonder if the hostages are okay. Come on, Demetri. Work with me. I’m busting my butt over here trying to get you back on the air. The least you can do is let me hear their voices.”

  Jack worked faster, jabbing the nail file at the knot.

  Demetri said nothing, thinking. Then he rose and walked toward the hostages, the phone wire trailing behind him. Fully extended, it was plenty long to reach across the set.

  Jack’s heart sank. He knew what Andie was doing, but her timing wasn’t good. So much for cutting myself loose.

  Demetri put the phone on the news desk and said, “I’ll give you one hostage a minute for the next three minutes. Ladies first. Say something, news lady.”

  Shannon looked up, as if caught off guard.

  “Come on,” said Demetri. “I know you bubbleheads like a script, but we don’t have one. Say whatever you want.”

  “I love you, Jeff,” she said.

  “Aww, isn’t that sweet?” said Demetri. “Will Jack Swyteck say the same to his girlfriend? Will Agent Henning think he’s just being a copycat if he does? Will she think he’s a schmuck if he doesn’t? We’ll find out in exactly sixty seconds. Damn, this is good television. Turn the fucking cameras on!”

  Andie read the handwritten message from Guy Schwartz in front of her: He’s losing it.

  Andie worried that her supervisor might be right.

  “Demetri, I know it’s late, and you must be getting tired. Maybe even a little punchy. But this is no time to lose focus. This isn’t a game. Don’t act as if it is.”

  “Are you lecturing me?”

  “I just want us to keep working together, Demetri.”

  “You keep saying that. Is that the only line they teach you at hostage negotiation school? And stop saying my name over and over again, like we’re a couple of old drinking buddies. Do they teach you to do that, too?”

  Andie checked the text message on the computer screen in front of her. It was from the SWAT unit leader.

  Team in position, it read.

  Andie spoke into her headset. “Isn’t it about time to hear from another hostage, Demetri?”

  “I told you to stop saying my name!”

  “I need to hear from another hostage,” she said as she typed out a response to SWAT: Hold your position.

  Demetri said, “I’m not giving you another hostage.”

  “That’s not smart,” said Andie. “We had a deal.”

  “No,” he said. “A deal is where I give you something, and you give me something in return. I already let you hear from the anchorwoman. Now get me back on the air.”

  She checked another computer message, this time from the technical unit, which was working to restore the Action News transmission.

  Need ten minutes, it read.

  “Demetri, I need more time to get you back on the air,” said Andie.

  “You’ve got four minutes, by my clock.”

  “Give me ten, and I’ll send in food.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “You must be.”

  “I said not hungry.”

  “Demetri, be reasonable.”

  “Three minutes and counting down,” he said.

  Another message from SWAT: Condition yellow. Green would be next, which was the breach.

  Hold, she typed back to SWAT.

  “False deadlines are a bad idea, Demetri.”

  “This one isn’t false. I’m putting the gun to your boyfriend’s pretty head right now.”

  That made her throat tighten. A SWAT breach now would be a disaster, but she put that out of her head and forced herself to negotiate.

  “Deal with me, Demetri.”

  “Make me another offer,” he said.

  “I won’t bid against myself. Take the food, give me ten minutes.”

  “You need to do better than food.”

  “How much better?”

  “I want to talk to the president.”

  “What?”

  SWAT messaged her again: Thirty seconds to green.

  Demetri said, “I saw Air Force One on TV. I know he’s at the airport. I want to talk to him.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” she said.

  Fifteen seconds, SWAT wrote.

  “Tic-toc,” said Demetri.

  “Give me ten more minutes, Demetri. Just say yes.”

  Green in ten.

  The television screen flickered in the command center, and Andie typed a quick message to SWAT: HOLD!

  “What’s happening?” said Demetri.

  Green in five—

  The television screen brightened, and the Action News broadcast from the news set was back on the air.

  Abort breach, Andie typed to SWAT.

  “Are we back?” said Demetri.

  Roger, was the response from SWAT.

  “Yes,” Andie told him, breathing out. “Thank God.”

  “Nice work,” said Demetri. “Two minutes to spare.”

  More like two seconds, thought Andie. “We aim to please,” she said.

  “Then get me President Keyes on the line.”

  “I can’t promise you that will happen,” said Andie.

  “You don’t have to,” said Demetri. “I have every confidence that he heard what I said. And this time, he knows I mean it.”

  The line clicked in her earpiece.

  Chapter 54

  Jack could see himself on the television screen. The Action News camera hadn’t moved since the transmission outage, and it was still aimed at him and Shannon. Same image, with one major difference: Jack looked scared to death.

  “You’re a lucky boy,” said Demetri as he pulled the gun away from Jack’s scalp.

  Jack breathed out. He’d heard of mock executions, terrorists putting a gun to the back of a prisoner’s head and pulling the trigger with the chamber empty. Jack hadn’t been pushed to that point, but he’d been close enough to understand how it made people crack.

  Demetri turned his back to the hostages and stepped toward the camera. Jack’s gaze followed him, and then he glanced over to the TV screen. The cameraman was still on the floor beside Jack, but he wasn’t in the television shot. Lucky for Demetri. If Andie saw that bloody face on television, SWAT would be busting down the door.

  “I want to welcome our television viewers back to the show,” said Demetri, “but I don’t think we’ll be having these technical difficulties again. The bad news is that our most compelling episode so far happened while we were off the air. But there’s some good news. We will be offering the entire block of missing footage as a bonus feature on the DVD edition of Action News Standoff, the first and only season, to be released this spring.”

  “He’s snapped,” Shannon whispered. “You have got to get us out of here.”

  Jack clenched the nail file and picked furiously at the knot behind his back. It was hard to tell, but he felt as though he might be making progress. He worked the file around to another angle, then accidentally jabbed himself in the wrist, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out in pain.

  Demetri turned his back to the camera and faced the hostages.

  “What was that face for, Swyteck?”

  Jack felt hot blood trickling down from his puncture wound to his fingertips. It hurt like hell.

  “I didn’t make a face.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I saw you on the television screen, right behind me. You better not be trying to throw signals at someone.”

  Jack was about to deny it, then reconsidered. He didn’t know what the punishment would be for throwing signals, but it had to be a lesser offense than trying to pick himself free with a nail file.

  “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Make sure of it,” said Demetri.

  The television screen flickered, and Jack thought for a moment that they might be going off the air again. Action News was simply resuming its split screen broadcast. This time, however, it was a different reporter with a live update from just outside the traffic-control perimeter.

  “This is Haley Vacaro, Action News. I’m standing about a mile from the Action News studio, which is now as close as police will allow traffic to approach on Frontage Road. Police have actually set up a second perimeter of traffic control here to prevent the crowd around the studio from swelling to an unmanageable level. With me is a close friend of Jack Swyteck, one of the three hostages. Sir, if you could step right over here, please, and give us your name one more time.”

  “Theo Knight.”

  Jack’s jaw dropped, but that was definitely the one and only Theo Knight on television, wearing a T-shirt that read BRINGBACKPORN.COM.

  “Mr. Knight, how is it that you know Jack Swyteck?”

  “Jack’s a dude, man. He was my lawyer when I was on death row, and we been hangin’ ever since. No pun intended.”

  The reporter stepped away. “Well, obviously this is someone’s idea of a joke, and I apologize to our viewers for—”

  “It’s true,” said Theo as he stepped back into the picture. “Look at this,” he said, holding up a key.

  “What is that?”

  “A key to a 1968 Mustang GT-390 Fastback. That’s the green car that crashed through the front door to your studio. I was with Jack when he bought it, and I kept the extra key.”

  You kept my damn key? thought Jack. He’d been looking for the spare.

  The reporter put a finger to her earpiece to receive a message. Whatever her producer was telling her, it seemed to satisfy her.

  “All right, Mr. Knight. What can you tell us about this hostage standoff? Any idea what it might be all about?”

  “I really couldn’t tell you, but I have someone with me who definitely knows the story. Her name is Sofia, and she used to be married to that dude with the gun inside the studio.”

  The reporter’s eyes lit up, as she’d just hit the jackpot.

  Demetri screamed at the top of his lungs, “Nooooo!”

  Jack understood the Greek’s reaction immediately, but he also realized that Theo had no idea how much danger he was putting Sofia in.

  Demetri moved faster than Jack had ever seen him move as he cut across the set, grabbed the phone, and punched star-69 to get the FBI command center. He shouted his demand in a voice that was more than loud enough for Jack to hear.

  “Henning, get Sofia protection, or all bets are off! Do you hear what I’m saying? The same thugs that want me dead also want her dead. You get her some protection right now!”

  Agent Frank Madera was in a conference room inside the Action News complex. The business-office wing was a new two-story building that ran perpendicular to the studio, and at Madera’s suggestion, Sergeant Figueroa had moved the Miami-Dade SWAT unit there from the coffee shop. It would serve as their staging platform into the newsroom—partly for logistical reasons, but mostly because it was on the opposite side of the building from the FBI SWAT staging area.

  The tactical team was suited up in black gear and ready to deploy, eight contemplative men leaning against the wall in silence. A ceiling-mounted television in the corner was tuned to Action News, keeping them apprised in real time. Madera stood at the head of the conference table, an architect’s blueprint of the newsroom spread out before him. At his side was Officer Sam Reed, MDPD’s top-rated sniper.

  “You’ll move in through the main air-conditioning duct,” said Madera, pointing to the blueprint. “There’s a large intake vent here, which provides access to the catwalk over the newsroom.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the perp has already sealed off the A-C vents,” said Reed.

  “You’ll need to be careful,” said Figueroa. “He did say in his first communication that he had a surprise for anyone who tried to come in through the A-C ducts.”

  “If it’s impassable, radio us,” said Madera. “Sergeant Figueroa will have to waive off the sniper shot and breach with his tactical team.”