Free The American by Andrew Britton

government sedans that belonged to the FBI personnel on the scene. Piles of dirty ice had accumulated at the curb, and the pavement beneath their feet was slick. A stiff wind whipped between the vehicles, making the temperature seem even lower than it really was. Ryan thought it was probably less than 30 degrees, making him wish he had brought more protection from the harsh weather than a worn, black-leather jacket. To make matters worse, he and Kharmai were forced to wait for five minutes while their identification was confirmed by the ponderously slow police officers maintaining the perimeter.
    Naomi was staring at an unmarked Chevrolet transport van that was at least 25 feet long. The rear doors were open, and Kealey could easily make out the switchboard inside, as well as a gasoline-powered generator bolted to the floor. The vehicle was surrounded by men in blue coveralls and body armor, each holding an HK MP10 down by his side, except for the few who carried shotguns chambered with entry rounds. The men were quietly conversing among themselves; some chewed gum rapidly, fingers tapping impatiently on the trigger guards of their automatic weapons. They tried to hide their tense faces, mostly failing in the effort.
    Ryan recognized the stress-relieving rituals and knew immediately that they would get the job done. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
    â€œDo you think they’re going in already?” Naomi asked.
    â€œJesus, I hope not,” he replied, gesturing in the direction of the news vans held beyond the perimeter. Satellite dishes were attached to the roofs of the vehicles. “If he’s actually up there, he can see everything we’re doing. This can’t get any worse than it already is.”
    Naomi spotted a heavy, angry-looking black man wearing a blue FBI parka over a white dress shirt and suit pants. He was shouting at a small cluster of agents, jabbing his finger into the air emphatically. She caught his eye and walked in his direction, Kealey trailing behind her. The agents scattered on their approach.
    â€œNaomi. I thought you might turn up,” the man said warily. She smiled pleasantly, ignoring the tone of his voice.
    â€œLuke Hendricks, Ryan Kealey. Luke here is the ASAC for the Washington field office. Why didn’t we hear about this?” she asked bluntly. The generous smile was gone from her face.
    â€œHey, you said it. I’m the Assistant Special Agent in Charge; that means there is about a billion people telling me how to do my job. I’m not the guy who decides what we share with other agencies,” Hendricks responded.
    Naomi was looking around. “Where’s the ADIC?” she asked. She was referring to the Assistant Director in Charge, who runs the field office in major cities such as Washington, D.C., and Los Angeles.
    â€œIn the hospital, believe it or not. Double-bypass surgery—pretty convenient, huh? I think he must have seen this one coming.”
    Kealey appraised the FBI agent quickly, approving of what he saw. Hendricks had a right to be angry; he had been placed in a difficult situation with very little oversight, and the unexpected presence of the reporters only compounded the problem. All the same, Ryan thought that he looked like a man able to make quick decisions under pressure.
    â€œWhat do you have at this point?” Ryan asked.
    â€œNot much. Confirmation that he’s in there, of course. The desk manager saw him go up twenty minutes before we walked through the door. We haven’t started a dialogue yet, and I’m beginning to think it won’t happen. I’m under pressure to send those guys in,” Hendricks said, waving vaguely in the direction of the SWAT team standing by. “Personally, I’d like to exhaust all other possibilities before I give them the go-ahead. My guys are pretty pissed off, but you’d never know it looking at them. Right now, I don’t see this man coming down