A Maidens Grave

Terrorists falling to the ground, crying like babies. Unarmed criminals streaking for freedom. Hidden guns. The young Syrian woman who walked slowly from an Israeli consulate, arms properly outstretched, and smiled sweetly at him just before the grenades in her bra blew herself and three HRT agents to pieces.
    Be forewarned.
    For only the third or fourth time in his career Arthur Potter lifted his weapon from his belt holster, high on his padded hip, and awkwardly pulled the automatic’s slide, chambering a round. He replaced the gun, not clicking on the safety.
    “Why isn’t anything happening?” Budd whispered in irritation.
    Potter stifled a sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh hysterically.
    “Art?” Handy’s voice floated from inside the slaughterhouse, a soft, ragged sound on the wind.
    “Yes?” Potter called through the megaphone.
    “Where the fuck are you? I don’t see you.”
    Potter looked at Budd. “Here’s where I earn my paycheck.” He rose unsteadily, polished his glasses on the lapel of his sports coat. Sharon Foster asked if he was sure he wanted to do this. He glanced at her then walked awkwardly down the hill and stepped over an ancient split-rail fence. He paused about thirty yards from the front of the slaughterhouse.
    “Here I am, Lou. Come on out.”
    And there they were.
    Handy first. Then Wilcox.
    The first thing he noticed was that their arms were at the backs of their heads.
    It’s all right, Ostrella. Come out however you want. Come home. You’ll be okay.
    “Lou, stretch your arms out!”
    “Hey, take it easy, Art,” Handy called. “Don’t give yourself a fucking heart attack.” Blinking against the powerful glare of the blinding lights. Amused, looking around.
    “Lou, you’ve got a dozen snipers aiming at you—”
    “Just a dozen? Shit! Thought I was worth more than that.”
    “Put your arms out or they’ll shoot.”
    Handy stopped walking. Looked over at Wilcox. They broke into smiles.
    Potter’s hand went to the butt of his pistol.
    Slowly the prisoners’ arms extended.
    “I look like a fucking ballerina, Art.”
    “You’re doing fine, Lou.”
    “Easy for you to say.”
    Potter called, “Move in separate directions about ten feet, then lie facedown on the ground.”
    They walked away from the slaughterhouse, fartherthan ordered but then dropped to their knees and went prone. The two HRT agents by the door kept their H&Ks trained on the fugitives’ backs and stayed clear of the doorway just in case Bonner wasn’t in fact dead or there’d been other takers inside that even the hostages hadn’t known about.
    The two agents hovering by the windows climbed inside, followed by two more, who ran from the shadows and sped through the door. The beams of the powerful flashlights attached to their guns whipped throughout the slaughterhouse.
    They’d been briefed about the incendiary device Handy’d rigged and they’d be moving very slowly, looking for tripwires. Potter believed he’d never been so anxious in his life. He expected the interior of the slaughterhouse to blossom into orange flame at any instant.
    Outside, two more HRT agents had moved up, covering the two beside the door, who now advanced on Handy and Wilcox.
    Did the men have armed grenades on them?
    Hidden knives?
    It wasn’t until they’d been cuffed and patted down that Arthur Potter realized the barricade was over. He’d escaped, alive and unhurt.
    And had once again read Handy wrong.
    Potter returned to Budd, D’Angelo, and Foster. Told the HRT commander to radio the agents taking the two convicts into custody with orders on how to handle them. Potter remembered that Wilcox was the cowboy in the group, more impulsive than the others. He’d ordered him shackled around the waist as well as cuffed but told them not to do so with Handy. Potter knew Lou would be more willing to cooperate if he retained at least a little control.
    Other agents appeared silently and covered the two men. They pulled them to their feet and frisked them again, more carefully, then quickly led them into a gully and hurried them away from the slaughterhouse.
    Then the lights went on inside.
    A long, long moment of silence, though it was probably just seconds.
    Where is she?
    “Go ahead,” D’Angelo said into his mike. He listened for a minute then said to Potter, “It’s secure. No other takers. No traps. There was something rigged in the room but it’s been dismantled.”
    The others rose to their feet