could have been the All Hell Has Broken Loose network. With a chyron that said Verner, California, a female reporter with hair flapping in the breeze was saying, “ . . . know so far. At approximately four thirty this morning, agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms served a federal search warrant at the enclave of religious cult leader Eldon LaSalle. We don’t have all the details yet, but one of the agents has been shot by a high-powered weapon. We understand the agent is in critical condition at Traynor Memorial Hospital. Since then, it’s been something of a standoff here. As you can see behind me, more and more vehicles and agents are arriving on the scene. We don’t know how many people are inside the compound, or what arms they have, but agents are making this a very careful—”
Steve flipped to the next channel. A talking head was on a split screen with a male reporter. “ . . . status of several women. There are reports of a hostage situation, but we haven’t been able to confirm. Negotiations appear to be underway. I spoke to one of the agents, who did tell me that the situation is stable for the moment, but it feels like something could blow at any time. What nobody wants is another Waco situation. Again, early this morning federal agents—”
Steve put the remote down, plugged in the hotel phone, and called Bethany’s room. She picked up immediately.
“Have you seen the news?” he asked.
“News?”
“There’s an army outside Beth-El. An agent’s been shot. It looks like a standoff.”
“Oh no.”
“The other women are apparently being treated like hostages.”
“Dear God.”
“We’ve got to get up there. You have information that can help, about the insides, about—”
“It won’t do any good,” she said. “He will kill them all.”
Steve said, “Get dressed.” Meyer had been good enough to find fresh clothes for both of them, though Steve’s selection was from the jail’s overflow. But this was not going to be a job interview.
He called the DA’s office next. The receptionist put him through to Meyer.
“Are you okay?” Meyer asked.
“Oh yeah, but what about you?”
“The town is at a complete standstill. The highway’s closed down.”
“I need to get up there with Bethany. We know the inside.”
“I can’t get to you from over here. I’ll see if I can get somebody on your side to pick you up.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“I hope so,” Meyer said.
73
The scene was straight out of a Bruce Willis movie. ATF and FBI, fully armed, were set up along the highway at several points. Two choppers hovered in the sky, over a bevy of law-enforcement vehicles, strategically placed.
Steve held Bethany’s hand as an agent showed them, along with Mal Meyer, to the command post. It was a black SUV with a full complement of high-tech equipment in the open back.
Agent Issler was on his phone as Meyer brought up Steve and Bethany. The noise from the choppers mixed with the scratchy sound of electronic voice feeds and the general din of a full-on cordon.
Steve saw someone else he recognized in the back of the SUV. The guy who’d taken him on the ride, at gunpoint, that night at his law office. He wore black sweats, headphones, and was sitting in front of a laptop. When he saw Steve, he nodded like it was old-home week.
Issler clapped his phone shut and looked at Steve. “So what have you got?”
“She was on the inside,” Steve said. “She can give you a layout.”
Issler said, “Can you start now?”
Bethany nodded.
“Then I’ll have you talk to Agent Malone.” He indicated the man in the SUV.
Bethany squeezed Steve’s hand. “It’ll be all right,” he said, and helped her into the back of the vehicle.
“Nice to see you again,” Malone said to Steve. “Glad you’re okay.”
Okay, Steve thought, was a highly relative term. His leg still hurt when he put pressure on it.
To Issler he said, “What’s the latest?”
“We have one agent down. Don’t know how many inside, except we think Eldon LaSalle is dead.”
“What?”
“Johnny LaSalle is negotiating. We think it would have been Eldon if he was alive.”
“What’s Johnny saying?”
“He wants a lot of things he’s not going to get.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I think you know.”
Steve gave a quick look to the cordon. “How you going to keep this from being another Waco?”
“What kind of a question is that?” Issler said.
“Realistic.”
“We’re talking.”
“How long you going to talk?”
“Mr. Conroy, if you’ll just hold tight.”
“Do you know if there’s a Sienna Ciccone in there?”
“I