Standoff, The

Washington, D.C. Salvatore Richardsen, Assistant Director of the General Investigative Division of the FBI, exited the elevator and was halfway to his car beneath the J. Edgar Hoover Building when a woman's voice from an overhead speaker summoned him back to his office for an urgent call. Upstairs, Richardsen set his briefcase down on the slate-colored carpet and stood in his unbuttoned London Fog and punched the flashing button on his speakerphone. "Jack," he said, fiddling with the secretary's message note left on his desk. Very sexy handwriting. Wishful thinking at this point, but he was definitely interested. He admired her script, trying to imagine her upright loops and fine trailing swirls curled around the wordcock. "Long time, Jack. Too long. Sounds like you're airborne." Banish's voice was low and remote over the squawk box. "Sal," he said. "What are you doing to me here?" "It's bad business, Jack. We'll need someone of your caliber out there." "Sal, I'm in a helicopter, I can't talk. Listen. I don't think I'm up to it." Richardsen licked his warm lips. He frowned. It was impossible to get an accurate emotional read over the connection, from a helicopter headset to a speakerphone all the way across the country. Like talking to someone on a car phone in the final lap of the Indy 500. "Jack," he said, "you have to be up to it. A quagmire up there, very important to this office, as well as SOARs. You know the bastard's drawn federal blood." A pause. The whup-whup of rotor blades and the underlying whine. "What about Raleigh?" he heard Banish say. Richardsen shook his head mildly. In his distraction, he held the pink message slip up to the bright ceiling lights. "He's tied up with that Port Authority thing in Los Angeles," he said. The way she made a capital B. Bold, broad, sweeping strokes. Tough, confident. Take-charge. On top of things, experienced--but with a delicate flow of expression. The same way she moved when she walked down the hall ahead of him. That royal-blue sheath dress she had worn today. He had a brainstorm suddenly. Get something of hers down to Handwriting for a full analysis. To get the inside track on her personality. Something off the top of her desk, maybe. Richardsen set the message note back down and paced a bit. "Look, Jack," he said. "Everything you need. You call back with the specs. Hostage Rescue is yours if you want it. QB this thing, you know the drills. He's on top of a frigging mountain, so you take your time, run your plays." "Sal, it's been more than two years." "Everyone knows that, Jack. I don't mean everyone. But you're out there on the fringe, counting your fingers. Look, Jack. A man of your talents. I have absolute confidence in you here, absolutely. You are the best, I mean that. Now, there's the kids involved, I don't know if you know. That's the other thing. They're armed, all right? His kids carry, that's the report we're getting. He trained theChuck Hogan is the author of 'Standoff, The', published 1996 under ISBN 9780553574463 and ISBN 0553574469.