Alone Read Online Free Page A

stronger. Bobby bet if he could see the man's face now, it would be wearing an ugly snarl, a red-mottled look of rage.
    Again, Bobby searched for signs of the wife and child, and again came up empty. Somewhere in that room, though, or the man would be moving. Bobby wished he could see the man's face.
    With nothing immediately happening, Bobby returned to diagramming the building for his team. Following protocol, he labeled each side of the brownstone with a letter, A, B, C, or D. Given that the brownstone had adjoining units on both sides and the back, that left only the front, which he labeled A. Then he numbered each level of the townhouse, one through five, plus basement. Finally, he recorded each opening of side A, describing whether it was a window or door, giving its approximate size and numbering it left to right starting with the number one.
    This yielded a uniformed chart for everyone to follow. The man was standing in front of French doors, side A, level four, opening three, or in quick shorthand when things got hopping, lone male A-four-three. No sorting through whose left or whose right. In three quick coordinates, boom, you got the job done.
    The diagram completed, Bobby did his own personal check, things he'd learned from years on the job. Any sign of advanced preparation in the home? Doors barricaded, slats of wood nailed across windows? Any sign of someone trying to hide misdeeds? Blinds pulled, or furniture blocking the view, etc.? Advanced preparation was a warning sign. So were shots fired out the window or open threats of violence.
    So far, everything remained quiet. No one was visible in the entire building except a lone male subject, standing four feet inside French doors, A-four-three.
    Bobby took the binoculars away from his eyes and returned to viewing the room through the scope of his rifle.
    With the sliders cracked he was getting a cold breeze, chilling his face and stiffening his fingers. When a spotter showed up, he'd have the guy close the sliders, but sit close enough to crack them again at a moment's notice. For now, he was okay, though. His breathing was steady, his muscles relaxed. He was finding that zone. Calm but prepared. Alert but relaxed. Aim small, miss small. He wasn't even really thinking about the card table anymore, or the cold November wind, or the fact that Mr. Harlow still lingered in the doorway behind him, eager for some kind of show.
    Soon, the hostage negotiator would arrive, get the subject on the phone, and try to work out a peaceful resolution. If no one was hurt yet, the negotiator would probably convince the man to quit now, while the worst he would suffer was a little embarrassment. If the family was injured, or worse, dead, then things would get trickier. But the crisis management team was good. Just last year, Bobby had watched the lead negotiator, Al Hanson, convince three escaped felons to surrender peacefully, when all three criminals were facing life in prison and had nothing to lose by shooting it out.
    Afterwards, Bobby's LT had gone up to each prisoner, clapped them on the shoulder, and thanked them sincerely for giving up.
    These situations always started with so much adrenaline, testosterone, and generally nutty hype. Then Bobby's team showed up and worked on toning it all back down. No reason for rash action. No need for violence. Let's just go through the paces, my man, and it'll all work out fine.
    Movement. Across the street, the suspect suddenly twisted, walking to the right in an agitated fashion. Bobby finally caught a glimpse of a handgun.
    “White male subject, moving in front of French doors, A-four-three. I see what appears to be a nine-millimeter handgun in right hand. White female,” Bobby declared suddenly, voice slightly triumphant. “Long black hair, dark red top, appears to be kneeling or sitting behind bed, fifteen feet inside French doors, A-four-three. White child, dark hair, pressed against the female. Small, maybe two or three years