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been reported as being among the hostages. So where were they? She was afraid to ask. If they were dead, or hurt, she didn’t want to remind Ware of it, and thus remind him, too, of how little he had to lose. If they were hiding somewhere in the house, she didn’t want to alert him to that, either.
    “Hollis Bayard,” Ware replied, and spelled it out with a touchof sarcasm. “Anything happens to him, this is going to get real ugly, real fast. Might want to pass that on.”
    Caroline didn’t need to: Dixon heard. “You’ll pay for this,” he muttered to Ware, who because she was no longer depressing the talk button couldn’t hear him. “Just you wait.”
    Then he turned and exited the van.
    “So if Hollis Bayard is released, you’ll let the hostages go?” Caroline asked, assessing via the monitor as much of the room the hostages were in as she could see. It was on the second story, maybe eighteen by twenty feet, with artfully arranged bookshelves lining the long wall opposite the camera and, presumably, the one on which the camera was mounted as well, which she could not see. The veranda that ran outside it struck her as a possible staging area for a SWAT assault, if that became necessary. On another monitor, she saw that she was not the only one who had realized its strategic possibilities: a long view of the house revealed that as the exodus of beautifully clad guests continued through the front door, a ladder was being put in place that rose from the ground to the second-story veranda.
    “Hollis Bayard’s release is one of the conditions,” Ware replied. Caroline was relieved to see that her father was sitting there with his lips compressed and a stony expression on his face. Apparently he believed in Ware’s threat enough to comply with it. The realization that Martin Wallace was cowed into silence by Ware sent a cold chill down her spine: it told her how real he felt the danger to himself and the other hostages was. “I’ve got a couple more.”
    “And they are?” The thought that she was keeping Ware calmand occupied while all around the mansion the stage was being set for him to be killed loomed large in Caroline’s mind. The horror of how in all likelihood this night was going to end made her stomach churn. She’d vowed to serve and protect, and she knew from experience that serving and protecting could be a bloody, soul-destroying business, but that didn’t mean she was immune to bad things when they happened.
    “Bayard’s release is number one.” Ware spoke directly into the camera. Directly to her . “I also want a helicopter. And a pilot who’s under orders to take me wherever I want to go. Have it land in the side yard, on that flat grassy area near the swimming pool. There’s plenty of room over there. Oh, and I want a million dollars. Cash. Unmarked, untraceable, nonsequential bills. In a suitcase. In the helicopter.”
    Caroline’s breath caught. “This is about money ?” The question escaped before she could stop it. That was because she still couldn’t fathom it: what could have occurred to make a good cop like Ware do something this monstrous? Quick answer, arrived at almost as soon as she considered the matter: probably not a sudden, overwhelming desire for a million dollars in cash. If a boatload of cash was what he wanted, there were easier, safer, more anonymous ways to get it, especially for an experienced cop like Ware. First thing she would think to do, if she desperately needed that much cash and was willing to commit criminal acts to get it, was shake down a few drug dealers. Or rob them. Not take half the movers and shakers in the city hostage. In fact, that was probably the last route she would choose: too dangerous; too public; almost zero chance of success.
    Ware wasn’t a stupid man.
    “You have no idea what this is about,” Ware replied. “Just get me my million dollars.”
    “So tell me,” she invited, her eyes riveted on him as he stared down the