A Maidens Grave

entitled “The Surrender Phase.” Potter and D’Angelo had decided to send in the tunnel rats—point men—under the loading-dock door to secure the interior and guard the hostages then have the takers come out through the front.
    “All right, Lou,” Potter continued. “When I tell you to I’d like you to put your weapons down and just step outside, with your arms out to your side. Not on your head.”
    “Like Christ on the cross.”
    The wind had grown much worse, bending saplings and stands of sedge and bluestem, Queen Anne’s lace, sending up clouds of dust. It would play hell with the snipers’ shooting.
    “Tell me the truth. Is Bonner dead or wounded?”
    Potter had visited Beverly, the poor asthmatic, in one of the hospital tents and learned that the big man indeed had been shot. But the girl explained that she’d done her best to avoid looking at him. She couldn’t say for certain if he was still alive.
    “Tired of talking, Art. Me and Shep’re gonna chat for a few minutes then we’ll give it up. Hey, Art?”
    “Yes, Lou?”
    “I want you out front. Right where I can see you. It’s the only way I’m coming out.”
    I’ll do it, Potter thought instinctively. Anything you want.
    “I’ll be there, Lou.”
    “Right out front.”
    “You’ve got it.” A pause. “Now, Lou, I want to tell you exactly—”
    “Goodbye, Art. It’s been fun.”
    Click.
    Potter found himself gripping the phone long after Handy’s voice was replaced by the rush of static. From nowhere the thought formed: The man’s bent on suicide. The hopelessness of the situation: the impossibility of escaping, the relentless pursuit, an unbearable prison term awaiting him. He’s going out in a flash.
    Ostrella, my beloved . . . .
    It would be the ultimate control.
    D’Angelo broke into the reverie, saying, “We’ll assume Bonner’s alive and armed until we get a confirmation.”
    Potter nodded, pressed disconnect, put the phone in his pocket. “Choreograph it carefully, Frank. I think he may go down shooting.”
    “You think?” Budd whispered, as if Handy had a Big Ear on them.
    “A hunch is all. But plan accordingly.”
    D’Angelo nodded. He got on the horn and doubled the number of snipers in the trees, moved up some explosives experts to the initial takedown team. When they were in place he asked, “Should we move in, Arthur?”
    Potter nodded to him. D’Angelo spoke into his microphone and four HRT troopers slipped along the front of the slaughterhouse. Two paused at open windows and the others disappeared into the shadows on either side of the door. The ones by the window had mesh bomb blankets over their shoulders.
    Then the HRT commander called the two point men inside the building. He listened for a moment then repeated the report to Potter: “Two hostages, apparently alive, lying on the ground in the room you indicated. Injured but extent unknown. Bonner appears to be dead.” The unemotional voice grew troubled. “Man, there’s blood everywhere.”
    Whose? Potter wondered.
    “Are Handy and Wilcox armed?”
    “No weapons in their hands but they’re wearing bulky shirts. Could be hidden.”
    Injured but extent unknown.
    Potter said to D’Angelo, “They had tools. Might’vebrought tape with them too and taped weapons under their shirts.”
    The HRT commander nodded.
    Blood everywhere  . . .
    Sharon Foster joined the men on the hillock. She’d put on bulky body armor.
    How was this going to end? Potter wondered. He listened to the mournful sound of the wind. He felt a desperate urge to talk to Handy once more. Pressed the speed-dial button on the phone he carried.
    A dozen rings, two dozen. No answer.
    D’Angelo and LeBow were looking at him. He hung up.
    Inside the slaughterhouse, the lights went out. Budd stiffened; Potter motioned him to relax. HTs often doused lights upon leaving, afraid to present a silhouette target even though they were giving up.
    The crescent moon had moved fifty degrees through the windy sky. Often there’s a sense of familiarity, even a perverse comfort, that a negotiator finds in the setting in which he’s spent hours or days. Tonight, though, as he gazed at the black and red brick, all Potter could think of was Handy’s phrase “Cold death.”
    The door opened slowly, stuck halfway, then opened further.
    No movement.
    What will it be? he wondered. Good or bad? Peaceful or violent?
    Ah, my beautiful Ostrella.
    During surrenders, he’d seen it all: