After three days Carmichael was sure who the occupant of the house was.

What to do now?

There was a knock on the passenger side window.

He rolled it down.

"Agent Carmichael." she said.

"Lainey Holloway." he said.

"Wonderin' why I ain't dead, ain'tcha?  C'mon inside.  Ya been a-settin' out here a while. Cain't be much comfy, and . . ." she sniffed, "yer gettin' kinda ripe . . . I'll see ya inside."

And just like that, she slammed the car door and walked away.

He got out and followed her.

***

"Bathroom's there.  Towels in t' cupboard.  Bathrobe on the back of t' door. Gimme me yer clothes, I'll wash 'em"

He hesitated.

"Carmichael, I know'd ya was there for the last two days.  If I were gonna hurt ya, I'da done it by now, and ya'd a' never seen 'er comin'.  Ya wanna talk, we kin talk, but I don't want ya stinkin' up my livin' room while we're at it . . .. Keep yer gun if it'll make ya feel better."

He was still drying his wet hair when he found her in the living room.  There was a tray of sandwiches and coffee on the table in front of her.

"Have a seat, make yourself t' home," she said, "Hope ya like turkey club."

"Thanks."  He sat on the couch opposite her and took a sandwich.  He was ravenous.

She gestured with her chin, "That gun of yours, what is it?  Nine mil? Compact .45?"

"Nine," he said through a mouthful of sandwich.

She reached behind her and pulled out a Beretta fitted with a large silencer.

He froze.

She laughed, rich and throaty.

"Toldja, Carmichael, if I want'd to hurt ya, ya'd already be hurt.  Here . . ." She tossed the gun onto the couch beside him.  "Clip's empty.  Take a couple three rounds out of yours and load 'er up."

"Why?"

"You'll see.  Ya want answers, don'tcha?  Best way you'll believe 'em is for me t' show ya."

He swallowed the bite of sandwich and complied.  He worked the slide to chamber a round.

She pointed at a bulbous looking vase sitting on a table across the room.

"Shoot it," she said.  When he hesitated, she got exasperated.  "Make sure it works! Shoot!"

He aimed and squeezed the trigger.  The soft report of the silenced weapon was mixed with the sound of shattering ceramic.

When he looked back at her, she held a second silenced gun pointed at his head.

"Never did like that vase, but it was a gift."

He started to put the Beretta on the table.

"Nah.  Point it at me, just like I'm doing t' you, right at my head."

He hesitated.

"Carmichael, if you don't, I WILL shoot ya."

"Take it easy," said Carmichael.  "I thought we were going to talk."

She pursed her lips, then lowered the gun and fired.  One of the coffee cups exploded in a shower of porcelain fragments and hot liquid.  Lightning quick, the barrel was back pointing between his eyes.

"Next one'll go right through your forehead if ya don't do as I say. NOW POINT THE GUN AT MY HEAD!"

Carmichael pointed.

"Here's how it's goin' t' work.  I count to five.  When I hit five, I shoot ya. That's the time ya got, Carmichael.  If ya don't shoot me first, ya die. Unnerstan'?"

". . . wait a seco . . ."

"One."

"Look, can't we just talk about this?"

"Two."

"Okay. I get it. Suicide by cop. Don't do this. It's not worth it."

"Three."

"Four."

"Fi . . ."

He pulled the trigger.

A neat red spot appeared above the bridge of her nose.  She slumped forward in the chair.  Its high back was spattered with blood and . . . other things.

In 25 years with the Bureau, Carmichael had never experienced anything like what had just happened.  His hand shook as he lowered the Beretta and laid it on the table.  The bit of sandwich he'd just eaten wanted to come back up.  Breathing deeply, he tried to collect himself.

Lainey Holloway was dead.

Again.

Nine eyewitnesses and a security camera tape said that she'd died the first time over seven years ago.

Three gunmen had entered a bank in Topeka, Kansas.  A quick thinking teller had triggered the silent alarm.  When police arrived, the perps had grabbed a young woman and announced they were going to kill her to show they meant business when it came to hostages.

Lainey Holloway had told them to take her instead.

They'd used her as a human shield. Walked her up near enough to the front doors to be seen.  Then put a gun to her head and killed her.  Her lifeless body had been dumped in the bank manager's office.

Ten minutes too late, Special Agent Hebron Carmichael, FBI hostage negotiator, arrived on scene.

By phone, he'd opened negotiations with the lead gunman.  There was a disturbance on the gunman's end and then the sound of the phone being dropped.  Moments later, he received a call from the hysterical bank manager, telling him the gunmen were all dead.

No bullet fragments remained in the severely mutilated bodies, but forensics found three apparent "projectiles", composed of depleted uranium, embedded in the building walls.

None of the hostages could or would say what had happened to the gunmen.  Lainey Holloway's body was never found.

***

Carmichael headed for the bathroom.  Fear reaction.  Needed to piss.

He finished washing up and looked in the mirror.  Lainey Holloway was standing behind him.

"What . . . are you?", said Carmichael, surprised at how calm he sounded.

She tilted her head, considering.  Her appearance underwent a subtle shift and for a brief moment, something cold and predatory looked back at him from behind seemingly human eyes.

Then it was gone.

"Someone who ya just SO do not want to go shootin' in the head without permission," said Lainey, smiling impishly.  "Still hungry?  Sandwiches is ruin't.  I'll make some new."