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up in her eyes, held back by the tape across her face.
    “No, don’t cry,” the man said. “You’ll ruin the pictures.”
    He reached out to stroke her arm. As he leaned closer, her whimpering turned into uncontrollable sobbing.
    The man withdrew and walked away. She struggled to hear what he was doing. A zipping sound, like thick tape being pulled from a roll, a tear. The man scurried back to the bed and sat down beside her. His hands pressed against her face, her eyes. He was putting on more tape. The man pressed the edges down firm, making sure she couldn’t see anything. She didn’t want to see anything, especially him. She knew if she did, he would never let her go. Not alive.
    The man backed away, his steps slowed and became distant. She heard the creak of a chair straining under his weight. Then silence.
    Over the next ten minutes, Jessica remained still, hearing nothing but the occasional squeak of the chair, letting her know he was still there. The silence was numbing. Soon, her body surrendered to exhaustion. Her mouth gaped open, sucking in air as if she had just completed a marathon.
    As she succumbed to fatigue, Jessica heard the camera whirl back to life. This time, Jessica Baker didn’t move, didn’t cry, didn’t beg. She just lay there, waiting for the man to finish.

    Jessica’s breathing became shorter, shallow and quick. She could only imagine what might happen to her. What she had already experienced was horrifying and the lack of not knowing what was to come only made it worse. Five minutes after it had started, the camera noise stopped. Her body shivered. For the first time in her life, Jessica Baker understood the real meaning of fear.

7
     

    Tuesday –
2:15 p.m.
     

    The outside temperature hovered at 105 degrees as Jack stepped out of his Crown Vic. The air conditioner was running full blast and the contrast in temperatures caused a puff of cool to escape when the door pulled wide. A ball of dust exploded under his shoe as it landed on the edge of Highway 99, where he was instructed to meet the other agents. He stared out at the vast expanse of arid soil that surrounded him. The Central Valley was the world’s largest grower of fruits and vegetables, the land that feeds the world. To Jack, it was a large dirt clod. It was like standing on Mercury—only hotter.
    The entry team met near the Modesto Airport , in preparation of executing Marquez’s search warrant for Andre Burke’s home. Three agents stood beside a blacked-out Suburban, adjusting their ballistic vests. Their pistols were slung low on their leg, SWAT style. The rest stood ready but looked antsy. Marquez, on her radio, checked with dispatch to ensure a clear channel during the operation. A dark green Impala was parked under a tall oak tree on the edge of the lot. An agent sat on the driver’s side, door opened, his legs hanging outside of the car. He was checking his holster and yanking on his ballistic vest, trying to find a comfortable position. It was Tom Cannon, a new agent fresh out of Quantico . Cannon fumbled with his gear, looking nervous. He gazed toward the rest of the crowd, then at Jack. Even from a distance, Jack saw Cannon’s face was pale. Jack returned a nod, then pulled his gear from the trunk and got ready.
    It was almost two by the time the team crowded into the Suburbans and drove up to the side of the apartment. They bailed out and formed a straight line, six deep. Marquez moved forward. She had the team stack up along the apartment building wall. With a wave of her arm, Marquez commanded the team to advance. Jack fell in close behind the lead agent, who was carrying a ballistic shield. Jack unholstered his 40-caliber Glock, trigger finger resting on the side of the frame, muzzle down. An agent trailed closely behind toting a mono-shock battering ram with the words Knock Knock painted on the side in white letters. As the three stood by the front door, the rest of the crew circled around and