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brightly exploding paint shells made getting hit all the more embarrassing. And the pain wasn’t something you forgot about anytime soon. As Steven, the class psychologist, dryly pointed out, the Hogan Alley live-action drills were basically classic shock therapy on a whole new scale.
    “Shot out the tires,” Lehane said now.
    “Yes, at least Kimberly eventually thought of that. Which brings us to the Deadly Deed of the Day.”
    Watson’s gaze swung to Kimberly. She met his look, knew what it meant, and stuck her chin up.
    “She abandoned the cover of her vehicle,” the first person said.
    “Put down her weapon.”
    “Went after one suspect before she finished securing the scene.”
    “Stopped providing cover fire—”
    “Got killed—”
    “Maybe she missed her partner.”
    Laughter. Kimberly shot the commentator a thanks-for-nothing glare. Whistler, a big burly former Marine—who sounded like he was whistling every time he breathed—smiled back. He’d won Deadly Deed of the Day yesterday when, during a bank robbery of the Bank of Hogan, he went to shoot a robber and hit the teller instead.
    “I got a little lost in the moment,” Kimberly said curtly.
    “You got killed,” Watson corrected flatly.
    “Merely paralyzed!”
    That earned her another droll look. “Secure the vehicle first. Control the situation. Then give pursuit.”
    “He’d be gone—”
    “But you would have the car, which is evidence, you’d have his cohorts to flip on him, and best of all, you’d still be alive. A bird in the hand, Kimberly. A bird in the hand.” Watson gave her one last stern look, then opened up his lecture to the rest of the class. “Remember, people, in the heat of the moment, you have to stay in control. That means falling back on your training and the endless drills we’re making you do here. Hogan’s Alley is about learning good judgment. Taking the high-risk shot in the middle of a bank holdup is not good judgment.” Whistler got a look. “And leaving the cover of your vehicle, and your fellow agents, to pursue one suspect on foot is not good judgment.” A fresh glance at Kimberly. Like she needed it.
    “Remember your training. Be smart. Stay controlled. That will keep you alive.” He glanced at his watch, then clapped his hands. “All right, people, five o’clock, that’s a wrap. For God’s sake, go wash all that paint off. And remember, folks—as long as it remains this hot, drink plenty of water.”

CHAPTER 2
    Quantico, Virginia

5:22 P . M .

Temperature: 94 degrees

    TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Kimberly stood blessedly alone in her small Washington Hall dorm room. Given this afternoon’s debacle, she’d thought she’d have a good cry. She now discovered that as of week nine of the Academy’s sixteen-week program, she was officially too tired for tears.
    Instead, she stood naked in the middle of the tiny dorm room. She was staring at her reflection in a full-length mirror, not quite believing what she saw.
    The sound of running water came from her right; her roommate, Lucy, fresh off the PT course, was showering in the bathroom they shared with two other classmates. Behind her, came the sounds of gunfire and the occasional exploding artillery. The FBI Academy and National Academy classes were done for the day, but Quantico remained a busy place. The Marines conducted basic training just down the road. The DEA ran various exercises. At any given time on the sprawling 385-acre grounds, someone was probably shooting something.
    When Kimberly had first arrived here back in May, first stepped off the Dafre shuttle bus, she’d inhaled the scent of cordite mixed with fresh-cut lawn and thought she’d never smelled anything quite so nice. The Academy seemed beautiful to her. And surprisingly inconspicuous. The sprawling collection of thirteen oversized beige brick buildings looked like any kind of 1970s institution. A community college maybe. Or government offices. The buildings were