The Blue Nowhere

beautiful. She didn’t look up and he was glad for that; he couldn’t have borne the burden of her gaze.
    Wait until they’re close, he told himself, so they can see you’re not a threat.
    As he stepped into the hall to wait beside the door he noticed on a desk in the den an old IBM-clone computer. Wyatt Gillette reflected on the dozens of hours he’d spent online in the past few days. Thinking: If he couldn’t take Elana’s love with him to his death, at least he’d have those memories of his hours in the Blue Nowhere to accompany him.
    T he tactical agents of Alpha team crawled slowly toward the stuccoed suburban house—hardly a likely setting for an operation of this sort. Mark Little signaled the team to take cover behind a bed of spiny rhododendrons about twenty feet from the west side of the house.
    He gave a hand signal to three of his agents from whose belts dangled the powerful stun grenades. They ran into position beneath the parlor, living room and kitchen windows then pulled the pins of the grenades. Three others joined them and gripped billy clubs, with which they’d shatter the glass so their partners could pitch the grenades inside.
    The men looked back at Little, awaiting the go-ahead hand signal.
    Then: A crackle in Little’s headset.
    “Alpha team leader one, we have an emergency patch from a landline. It’s the SAC from San Francisco.”
    Special Agent in Charge Jaeger? What was he calling for?
    “Go ahead,” he whispered into the stalk mike.
    There was a click.
    “Agent Little,” came the unfamiliar voice. “It’s Frank Bishop. State police.”
    “Bishop?” It was that fucking cop who’d called before. “Put Henry Jaeger on.”
    “He’s not here, sir. I lied. I had to get through to you. Don’t disconnect. You have to listen to me.”
    Bishop was the one they’d decided might be a perp inside the house trying to distract them.
    Except, Little now reflected, the phone lines to the house and the cell were down, which meant that the call couldn’t be coming from the killers.
    “Bishop. . . . What the hell do you want? You know what kind of trouble you’re going to be in for impersonating an FBI agent? I’m hanging up.”
    “No! Don’t! Ask for reconfirmation.”
    “I don’t want to hear any of this hacker crap.”
    Little examined the house. Everything was still. Moments like this summoned a curious sensation—exhilarating and frightening and numbing all at the same time. You also had the queasy sense that one of the killers had itchy crosshairs on you, picking out a target of flesh two inches off the vest.
    The cop said, “I just nailed the perp who did the hacking and shut his computer down. I guarantee you won’t get a reconfirmation. Send the request.”
    “That’s not procedure.”
    “Do it anyway. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you go in there under Level 4 rules of engagement.”
    Little paused. How had Bishop known they were operating at Level 4? Only someone on the team or with access to the bureau computer could have known that.
    The agent noticed his second in command, Steadman, tap his watch impatiently then nod toward the house.
    Bishop’s voice was pure desperation. “Please. I’ll stake my job on it.”
    The agent hesitated then muttered, “You sure as hell just did,Bishop.” He slung his machine gun over his shoulder and switched back to the tactical frequency. “All teams, stay in position. Repeat, stay in position. If you’re fired upon full retaliation is authorized.”
    He sprinted back to the command post. The communications tech looked up in surprise. “What’s up?”
    On the screen Little could still see the confirmation code okaying the attack.
    “Confirm the red code again.”
    “Why? We don’t need to reconfirm if—”
    “Now,” Little snapped.
    The man typed.
    FROM: TACTICAL COMMANDER, DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA
    TO: DOJ TAC OP CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.
    RE: DOJ NORTHERN DISTRICT CALIFORNIA OPERATION 139-01
    RED CODE CONFIRM?
    A message popped up:
    
    These few minutes could give the killers inside a chance to prepare for an assault or to rig the house with explosives for a group suicide that would take the lives of a dozen of his men.
    
    This was taking too much time. He said to the communications officer, “Forget it. We’re going in.” He started toward the door.
    “Hey, wait,” the officer said. “Something’s weird.” He nodded at the screen. “Take a