MEG DIDN'T UNDERSTAND at first.

The man was smiling, and his pleasant expression and tone of voice didn't match his words. "We've taken your daughter hostage."

She was in the parking garage beneath her condo, hauling a box of files from the back of her car, when he approached her. She wasn't even a hundred feet away from Ramon, the building's security guard.

The smiling man must've seen the confusion in her eyes, because he said it again. In a Kazbekistani dialect. "We have your daughter, and if you don't follow our orders, we'll kill her."

And this time, Meg understood. Amy. She dropped the box.

"Everything okay over there, Ms. Moore?" Ramon was down off his stool, starting toward them. There'd recently been a rape in another parking garage in this part of Washington, DC.

"Tell him yes," the smiling man murmured, opening his baseball jacket, giving her a flash of a very deadly looking gun.

Oh, God. "Where is she?"

"If I don't make a phone call to my associates within the next hour, she's dead," he told her as he bent down to pick up the box. "My associates are Kazbekistani Extremists."

Terrorists. But not just regular terrorists. The Extremists were religious zealots, capable of terrible violence and cruelty, all in the name of their god. And they had Amy.

Oh, God.

"Everything's fine," Meg called to the guard, her voice shaking only slightly.

"We're old college friends." The man turned his friendly smile on Ramon. "I thought I recognized Meggie. I didn't mean to appear before her like the ghost of Christmas past, though, and scare her half to death."

Ramon's hand was on the gun holstered at his waist. He smiled politely, but his dark brown gaze was on Meg. "Ms. Moore?"

Help.

She'd prepared for situations like this, back when she was working at the American embassy in Kazbekistan, an Eastern European country also know as K-stan or "the Pit" to the Americans who served time there. During her stay, she was reminded regularly that the United States didn't negotiate with terrorists. The best solution was preventive -- stay safe, stay secure, stay away from dangerous persons and situations.

It was a little late for that now -- although who would have thought a K-stani terrorist would show up here in Washington, all these years later?

Meg knew what she should do in this situation. She should enlist Ramon's help while this man held her box of files, while his hands were full and he couldn't easily reach for his gun. She should be a strong American and refuse to negotiate with terrorists. She should seek help from the FBI.

Who, no matter how good they were, wouldn't be able to find her ten-year-old daughter within the next sixty minutes.

After which time Amy would be killed.

Meg forced a smile. American be damned. She was playing this one out as Amy's very frightened mother. "It's all right, Ramon," she lied. "We're... old friends."

"How about I carry this upstairs for you?" The man continued the charade. His English was remarkably good -- he had only the faintest of accents. "We could talk about old times over a cup of coffee."

"Great." She smiled again at Ramon, who watched them all the way over to the elevators.

"Where is she?" Meg hissed from behind her frozen smile. "Where's Amy? And what about my grandmother?" Amy had planned to take her great-grandmother, Eve, to the Smithsonian while Meg picked up these files she'd been hired to translate. Meg hadn't been sure exactly who was the baby-sitter -- the ten-year-old or the seventy-five-year-old.

"The old lady's your grandmother." He nodded as he pressed the elevator's call button. "I thought she was too old to be your mother. We've got her, too."

Meg felt a rush of relief. At least Eve was with Amy. At least Amy wasn't alone and terrified and... "I don't understand. I'm not rich, and--"

"We don't want your money." The elevator doors opened and he stood back, politely letting her on first -- the perfect terrorist gentleman. "We want you to do us a little favor."

Oh, God.

"You frequently do business at the Kazbekistani embassy across town, right?"

Oh, mighty God. The doors slid closed, but she kept her smile in place. Ramon would be watching through the security cameras.

"I only work as a consultant, a translator. It's never, I never..."

He pushed the button for twelve. Somehow this man she'd never seen before knew she and Amy lived on the twelfth floor.

Meg took a deep breath and tried again. "Look, I'm not allowed into any areas inside the embassy that contain confidential information or--"

"We don't want you to spy for us. We already have an agent in place inside the embassy for that purpose." He laughed and it wasn't purely for the cameras. This man was enjoying himself, amused by her fear.

A fear that morphed hotly into anger as she turned her back to the security camera. "Then what do you want, damn it? How do I even know you've got Amy and Eve?"

The elevator doors opened at the twelfth floor. He stepped back, again to let her go first. "If you like, we'll send you the old lady's head in a box--"

"No!" Oh, God.

He laughed again. "Then I guess you've just got to trust me, don't you, Meggie?"

Meg's hands were shaking so badly, she couldn't get her key into the lock.

He shifted the box to one arm and a hip as he gently took her key ring from her, opened the door, and pushed her inside, following her into her living room. "I'm afraid I can't be as trusting," he continued, setting her box next to the couch. "After we discuss strategy and negotiate terms, I'm going to drive with you over to the embassy. I know it's after five, but there's a function tonight. Nothing formal. You can wear jeans. In fact, I want you to wear jeans. With those boots you have. What are they called? Cowboy boots. Or should it be cowgirl boots?"

"Negotiate terms?" Meg didn't give a damn what she wore. "What terms?"

"Well, it's actually a pretty simple negotiation with only one or two minor points. But the bottom line is that if you want to see your daughter and grandmother again, you'll do what we tell you to do. If you don't..."

"I do."

"Good." He crossed to the windows, pulled the curtains. "Once you're in the embassy, our inside agent will keep an eye on you. If you make any attempt to get help or to contact the authorities at any time, we will kill your daughter. Have absolutely no doubt about that."

His smile was gone.

Meg nodded. She didn't doubt him. After living and working in Kazbekistan for years, she knew quite well what the Extremists were capable of.

"What do you want me to do?"

Eve was certainly old enough to recognize real trouble when she found herself in it up to her hips.

And regaining consciousness on the hard metal floor in the back of a moving cargo van with her hands and feet tied was something of a clue that this day had taken a real turn for the worse.

It hadn't started out as a real swell day anyway, considering it was her seventy-fifth birthday and she'd long since given up celebrating the fact that she was continuing to get older. A faceful of wrinkles, sagging breasts, thin gray hair, loose skin, brittle bones, failing memory -- wah-hoo! Let's have a party!

She hadn't minded so much while her husband was alive. He'd always managed to make her feel twenty years old and impossibly beautiful. But he'd been gone for two years now, and for two years, all she'd felt was old.

She could smell cigarette smoke, hear the hum of low voices drifting back from up front.

When she'd first awakened, she'd thrashed about a bit, searching desperately in the dimness for her great-granddaughter. She'd found the little girl right away. Amy was still unconscious -- knocked out from whatever drug they'd been given, there on the sidewalk outside the Smithsonian.

Eve had made sure the girl was breathing, made certain her pulse was clear and strong, then had sunk back onto the floor, the rope digging into her wrists and ankles, the cold metal biting into her tender hips.

They were moving steadily forward, without any radical turns. The van was on the highway, Eve decided. Lifting her head slightly, she caught the final glow of the sunset out the front windows, to the right. They were heading south, probably on Route 95.

How had this happened?

Eve closed her eyes, struggling to remember.

She and Amy had been headed to the Smithsonian, ready to spend the day taking it all in. They'd packed a picnic lunch as Meg had rushed out the door, promising a birthday that Eve would never forget.

Eve doubted that this was what her favorite granddaughter had meant.

She and Amy had just gotten out of a cab and were there on the sidewalk in front of the museum when a man had approached them, hopelessly lost, asking for directions.

He had a map, and as Eve had leaned over it, trying to read the tiny street names, she hadn't noticed someone else coming up behind them until it was too late. Until they'd grabbed her, grabbed Amy.

She could remember Amy screaming. She could remember her own struggles to reach the little girl, and the sharp stab of a needle that made the world wobble and waver and finally just plain disappear.

There was no doubt about it. She and Amy had been kidnapped.

She had to find Osman Razeen.

Meg could feel a bead of perspiration trickle down her back as she tried to move purposefully up the stairs toward the new Kazbekistani ambassador's office. She tried to look as if she had a real reason to be here, tried to look as if she couldn't feel the gun in her boot, hard and cold against her leg. She tried to look as if her insides weren't tied in a knot of fear for Amy. Please God, don't let them hurt her...

This was impossible.

Ridiculous.

Although it had been absurdly easy getting into the embassy with a loaded gun. The decorative chains on her cowboy boots had set off the metal detector at the front entrance -- the way they'd done many times in the past. She knew the guard on duty -- Baltabek was his name -- and he just rolled his eyes, laughed, and waved her through.

Obviously the Extremists had been watching her for a while. Obviously they'd targeted her specifically for this because they knew she could get into the embassy unquestioned.

What else did they know about her?

They knew that she'd do anything--anything -- including give her life to keep Amy safe.

Including smuggle weapons into the Kazbekistani embassy, intending to kidnap or -- if it looked as if she couldn't get her target out -- to kill.

That target was a man named Osman Razeen, the leader of a rival terrorist group known as the GIK -- the Islamic Guard of Kazbekistan. The Extremists hated the GIK and thought Razeen disloyal to their cause and deserving of death. They wanted to bring him back to K-stan for a public execution. But they'd settle for his assassination right here, right now.

And the Extremists seemed confident that Meg, in order to protect her daughter, would be capable -- if she had to -- of pulling that trigger and ending his life.

Meg didn't know for sure that this Osman Razeen was really here, inside the embassy. But the thought that he could be here, that the leader of the GIK might have worked his way so thoroughly into the political trappings of his country's government, was mind-boggling.

Still, at this moment, she didn't give a damn if the K-stani government had been penetrated by spies or terrorists or even the Easter Bunny himself.

At this moment, she wanted only to save Amy and Eve.

And to do that, she had to find Osman Razeen.

She couldn't get help without the Extremists finding out. There was no one inside the embassy that she could speak to, no one she could trust.

She couldn't even dare to approach the Americans that were here at the embassy on business. One of them could just as well be the Extremists' inside man.

Meg looked back at the K-stani guards standing at the foot of the stairs in their ornate formal uniforms. Despite the bright colors and the flash of gold braids, those uniforms weren't half as resplendent as the U.S. Navy's dress whites.

No, there was no one and nothing that could compare to an officer of the U.S. Navy when he was dressed to shine....

Meg gripped the banister, stopping short at the top of the stairs. She needed help -- there was no doubt about that. There was no way in hell she could do this alone. And in a flash of clarity, she realized exactly whose help she needed, and how she just might be able to get it.

But first she had to find Osman Razeen.

He was believed to be a tall man, about six-one or -two, dark hair, brown eyes, about forty years old. The Happy Terrorist from the parking garage had shown Meg a blurred and faded photograph taken a good fifteen years ago. It was apparently the only picture in existence of the elusive Razeen.

She'd studied the photo, memorizing his chin, his nose, his light brown eyes and his rather unremarkable face, praying that she'd recognize this man when she saw him.

In the picture, he didn't glare the way a terrorist was supposed to glare. He didn't have a heavy, furrowed brow or thin, cruel lips. In fact, his lips were rather full, and he smiled crookedly, charmingly, at whomever was taking the photograph.

And now he was fifteen years older. His hair might be gray. It might be gone. He might've gained fifty pounds, might've aged into someone unrecognizable.

And to add to her problem, Razeen could be virtually anywhere. He could be in the kitchen, disguised as part of the serving staff, cutting lamb into cubes for shish kebab for tonight's dinner. He could be the aide to the ambassador. God, he could be the new ambassador....

Then Meg saw him. It had to be him, didn't it? Osman Razeen, only slightly heavier than the man in the photo, dressed in a dark business suit, deep in conversation with three other men as they headed together down the hall. But she wasn't sure. How could she possibly be one hundred percent certain it was him?

He was about the right age, the right height, the right coloring.

His companions were speaking in Russian as they passed, one of the men, heavyset and balding, making a cruel joke about Putin.

All four men laughed, and it was the smile, that same slightly crooked smile that was in that photo, that convinced Meg.

She'd found Razeen.

As she watched, he went into the men's room with the other three men. And she knew. It was now or never. She couldn't have asked for a better location.

Meg crossed the hall, heading directly for the ladies' room, right next to the men's. She pushed open the door and went into a stall, where she pulled up her pant leg and reached into her boot for the gun.

She took off the safety the way the Extremist had shown her, slipped the compact weapon into her jacket pocket, finger wrapped around the trigger.

Pushing her way back out of the stall, Meg purposely didn't look at the big mirror above the sinks. She refused to look at the reflection of her face, pale and grim, refused to think about the fact that these next few moments could well be her last. By pulling out that gun, she would be making herself a target, damn near begging to get herself shot and killed.

But she'd do it. She'd kill Razeen if she had to. And if and when it came down to it, she'd even die herself. For Amy.

Yes, the Extremists knew quite a lot about her.

But they didn't know everything.

They didn't know about John Nilsson.

She yanked open the door, hung a sharp left, and went directly into the men's room.

Alyssa Locke missed her uniform.

She hated waking up each day and staring into her closet. She despised having to decide which pants to wear with which blouse and which blazer.

And then there was the matter of accessories. Locke wished she could wear a tie, but unfortunately the Annie Hall look had come and gone before she was out of grade school. So she also had to worry about whether or not to tie a scarf around her neck for a splash of color. Would that make her look too feminine, or would it counteract the message sent by her extremely sensible, flat-heeled shoes?

Yes, she missed her uniform.

She also missed the order and regulations, and the inherent respect that was so often absent in the civilian sector.

But that was about all that Locke missed since resigning her commission as an officer in the U.S. Navy.

What she didn't miss was the frustration. Frustration caused by the knowledge that despite her talents and skills, despite the fact that she was the best sharpshooter in the entire U.S. military, she was destined to be kept far from the real action. Despite the fact that she could meet the fitness requirements, there was no chance in hell she'd ever be welcomed into the hallowed ranks of a spec-op group like the U.S. Navy SEALs.

Simply because she'd been born without a penis.

Not that she particularly wanted one.

Locke smiled as she got into the elevator and headed skyward toward her office. Now, that wasn't entirely true. She did happen to want one. At times, she wanted one quite badly, in fact. Unfortunately, though, penises came attached to men. And therein lay one of her biggest problems.

Men wanted to own her.

Alyssa Locke was a beautiful woman. She could state that without any ego involved. Why should her ego have anything to do with it? It was pure genetics that gave her green eyes, flawlessly smooth mocha-colored skin, and a face that combined the best features from all of her various African American, Hispanic, and white parents and grandparents.

Sure, maybe she worked out to keep the body God gave her trim and in shape, but the basics were there to start with.

Now, her skills as a shooter... That was something about which she could be extremely egotistical. And rightly so, because she was as good as it got. She'd honed that skill with hard work and endless practice, until hitting a target dead-on became as natural and effortless as taking a breath.

Yeah, when it came to shooting, she was all that, and more.

The FBI wouldn't have sought her out for their top counter-terrorist unit if they didn't think as much, too.

And when the FBI recruiter said the magic words field work, Locke shook hands on the deal, resigned her commission, and went out shopping for black business suits and a pair of dark sunglasses.

The elevator opened onto her floor, and she moved briskly down the hall, keeping eye contact with the mostly male agents to a minimum. She'd give a nod of acknowledgment if she knew them on a first-name basis. But God forbid she smile. The male interpretation of a friendly smile in the hall was somewhere between "I'm extremely interested, let's have a drink after work" and "I want to jump your bones right here, right now."

She'd stopped smiling at a man -- unless he was a close friend -- right about the time she'd turned fifteen.

She breezed into her office, opened the drawer of her desk, and dropped her fanny pack inside.

Jules was already in. He'd poured her a cup of coffee and left it steaming in a mug atop her desk, bless his strange little soul. Even though it wasn't morning, their day had just begun.

He stuck his head in the door, and today it was quite a head. FBI Agent Jules Cassidy had gone blond. Garishly, glaringly blond, with dark brown roots.

The dye job and the new cut made him look about seventeen years old, which was exactly the idea. With his handsome baby face and vertically challenged stature, he could gain access to places more traditional FBI suits could never get into.

"Any word?" he asked.

Locke shook her head, settling behind her desk. "Nothing yet." And she didn't want to talk about it. "That nose ring real or--"

"Nah. You think I would risk scarring this face?" He took it off as he came all the way into her office. He was wearing a silk shirt and leather pants that were impossibly tight. Amazingly tight. If she had a thing for gay seventeen-year-olds, she'd be in big trouble. "I was doing the club circuit -- the early happy hour crawl -- searching for Tony Ghilotti. I forgot I had it on."

"Find him?" she asked.

"Nah. Son of a bitch's long gone. I'm sure of it. But try telling that to the boss...." He gazed at her, his brown eyes concerned. "I'm the one doing double shifts, but you're the one looks like shit. Sleep much lately, girlfriend?"

With anyone else, she would've lied. But this was Jules, so she shook her head. Over the past few months, they'd worked too closely together too often to keep any secrets.

He watched as she took a sip of her coffee. "You know, it's got to happen soon. And your sister's going to be all right."

Locke nodded and smiled because he wanted her to nod and smile. "It's the waiting that's killing me," she admitted.

"Maybe you should take some time off," Jules suggested. "Go hang out with her--"

"Bad idea."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself." He ran his hand across the top of his head. "So. You hate the hair."

Locke had to laugh. "You are so vain," she told him. "You know exactly how gorgeous you look, Mr. Fishing-for-a-compliment."

He grinned, turning to give her a view of his backside. "Check out my ass in these pants."

"Already did, thanks."

"And...?"

"Thanks for the coffee," she said. "Get out of my office."

"Hands up! Move it! Come on, hands high -- up where I can see 'em!"

Two of the men were standing by the sinks, two -- Osman Razeen and the heavyset man -- were still over by the urinals. They all looked up in surprise as Meg burst into the men's room.

"What is this--"

"Freeze!" she shouted, holding the gun in both hands, the way she'd seen on cop shows on TV, shifting her aim from one group of men to the other. "Don't move, don't talk, don't do anything but put your hands in the air! Now!"

Oh, God, was she really saying this, really doing this?

It worked. Four pairs of hands went up, and the heavyset man peed on his shoe.

His pants were unzipped and...

Oh, this was just perfect.

She waved her gun at the men over by the sinks. First things first, then she'd deal with... other issues. "Get over with the others. Move it, let's go!"

They moved.

The K-stani embassy men's room was much larger -- at least five times more so -- than the women's room. The walls were covered with blue tile, the floor a paler shade. Urinals lined one wall, the stalls were across from the sinks. There were no windows and only that one door.

It was the perfect location for holding off a siege.

"Keep your hands high." Meg quickly checked to make sure there was no one else in the room, no one hidden in one of the stalls.

"Do you mind if I--"

"Yes." She cut the heavy man off. "Keep your hands up."

She wanted to apologize. So sorry for the humiliation but I can't let you lower your hands, not even for that.... But she knew she couldn't risk coming across as weak. She had to keep them believing that she knew how to use this gun, that she would use this gun if they threatened her.

And she couldn't let them lower their hands. Not if she wanted to stay alive.

Sure, the ambassador's staff weren't supposed to carry weapons in the embassy. But there was also a rule stating that she wasn't supposed to have a gun, either. And here she was. Fully armed and dangerous.

"Do you honestly think you can take the Kazbekistani ambassador hostage inside his own embassy?" the heavy man asked. He was sweating, and Meg realized that he didn't fear a hostage situation. He was afraid she had come here on a suicide mission, to gun them all down. Such were the ways of the violent world from which he'd come.

Razeen was silent, just watching her, his dark gaze impossible to read, but another man spoke up. "Perhaps we could negotiate. If you would tell us what it is that you want...?"

"I want silence," Meg told them sharply. "I want your hands in the air. I want you--" She pointed with her gun at the heavyset man in all his unzipped glory. " -- to take a message to both your government and mine. I want all guards and police to stay far away, I want this entire floor cleared. If someone so much as touches this door, I'll start shooting. You make sure they understand that -- they breathe funny on the door, and these men are dead."

He nodded his understanding, his double chins wobbling.

"Tell them," Meg continued, "that I have a list of demands, but the only person I'll consider negotiating with is Ensign John Nilsson of the U.S. Navy SEALs. Tell them to find him and bring him here, and then I'll talk."

Please God, let John be somewhere close by...

"Do you understand?" she asked.

He nodded. "John Nilsson. U.S. Navy."

"He's a SEAL. Make sure you tell them that."

"A SEAL," he repeated obediently, his eyes longingly on the door.

"Go."

Hands still high, the heavyset man took his various exposed parts and lunged for the door.

And Meg sat down, her back to the tile wall, her gun on her remaining hostages.

Waiting for John Nilsson to come and save the day.

Copyright © 2001 by Suzanne Brockmann