Excerpt of Hate Crime by William Bernhardt

CHAPTER 1

I should feel something more, Mike thought, as he squeezed
one eye closed and pressed the other against the scope.
Some twinge of reluctance, or regret. A tightening in my
gut, a chill at the base of my spine. A tingling beneath
the short hairs on the back of my neck. But . . .

All he felt was the strong and unmitigated desire to
complete his mission, to do what he had come to do.

If the man would just come a little closer to the window,
I could blow his head off, he mused. And would. With
pleasure.

Major Mike Morelli of the Tulsa PD Homicide Division
pulled his eye away from the reticle and wiped his brow.
The world was a different place, viewed through a
sniperscope. After three hours of micro-scrutinizing the
apartment walls, the windows, the shadowy figures that
passed just out of range, he saw everything from a new
perspective. It was all deceptively larger, closer, and,
as a result, it conveyed an urgency that Mike was having
difficulty subduing. He wanted those bastards so badly. If
he could rip out their jugulars with his teeth, he would.

The cloud cover barely allowed the sun passage. Here on
the street, behind the barricade, there was a distinct
coolness in the air, one Mike felt in the marrow of his
bones. He had not expected this sort of weather and had
not dressed for it. Even his trademark trench coat, a
carryover from his younger days when he thought it gave
him the stature and credibility his youthful face did not,
was insufficient to warm him. It was a gloomy Oklahoma
day, the perfect mirror for what he was feeling inside.

With something between a grunt and a sigh, Mike returned
his eye to the scope and prayed fora clear shot. C'mon,
Mr. Kidnapper, give me a chance. Come to the window for a
breath of fresh air, just a tiny bit closer. I'll give you
a view you'll never forget.

"Move back!" a man shouted from the darkness of the
apartment, his electronically amplified voice sounding
more desperate with each word. "Move back or I kill the
kid!"

He'd been shouting like that off and on since the siege
began, always frenzied, always violent, and always just
out of range.

"I mean it! If you're not on the other side of the street
in one minute, I'll ventilate him!"

Mike heard the personal radios surrounding him crackle to
life, and a few moments later they were all moving back.
Again. Hour twelve of the Sequoyah Heights siege. Progress
made: zero. Mike's finger rested ever so gingerly on the
trigger guard, never past the safety. But if he thought he
had a shot, he'd pull that trigger so fast the SOT team
and their professional sharpshooters wouldn't know what
happened. He knew he could do it. He could sense the
electricity surging through the stock into his shoulder.
He could feel the cold steel and smell the leather strap.
He had the power of life and death in his hands. But the
only part that interested him at the moment was death. He
wanted to pull that trigger so badly. Just give me half a
chance, he murmured to himself. Just half a chance.

"Are you checked out for that weapon, Major?"

Mike eased away from the rifle, laying it on its side.
Party's over.

"Yes, Special Agent Swift, I am. As a matter of fact, I'm
checked out for about every kind of weapon there is. But I
was only using the scope to surveil the apartment." And if
you believe that . . .

"Just making sure. Don't want any screwups on my watch."

Her watch? When the hell did this become her watch? That
was the problem with Feebies—one of several. They couldn't
cross the street without trying to take charge.

"Our first priority is getting that little boy out alive,"
Mike reminded her.

"I'm well aware of that," Agent Swift replied. She was a
petite but strong woman, Mike observed, not for the first
time. Dark hair, an almost perfect match to her
turtleneck. Gun holstered by shoulder strap, visible when
her jacket pulled back. She managed to bring off that no-
nonsense, don't-mess-with-me look without suggesting that
she had an ax to grind. "But if one of my men gets a shot
at one of the kidnappers, I can damn well guarantee we're
going to take it."

"Good to know. Of course I wouldn't dream of interfering."

She gave him a long look. "I've always prided myself on my
ability to work cooperatively with local law enforcement."
Mike had to grin, both because he knew that was a crock,
and because for a moment he was certain she was going to
say, "I've always depended upon the kindness of
strangers." Swift had come from the Chicago office of the
Bureau, but she was originally from the Deep South—an
Alabama girl, if he recalled correctly. Mike loved the
accent—a pleasant change from the unenunciated drawl you
got in Oklahoma the closer you moved to the Texas
border. "That's why you're here. I wanted to keep the
locals involved, but I can't have you endangering the
success of my operation with any hotdog stunts."

Mike peered at her credulously. "Where would you ever get
the idea I might try some hotdog stunts?"

"From everyone who knows you. Including Chief of Police
Blackwell."

Damn him, anyway. Whose side was he on?

"I also know you're not so crazy about working with FBI
agents. I heard what happened during the Lombardi case, so
I guess you've got your reasons, but I still—"

"You still won't let me endanger the success of your
operation. I got that, Special Agent. I'll keep my nose
clean."

"Until we catch the kidnappers. Afterward . . ." She
cocked her head to one side. "You can try anything you
want."

Now what was that supposed to mean? he wondered, as he
watched her move down the line and start in on one of the
snipers. Was this FBI agent flirting with him? That would
be a gross impropriety. And darned flattering.

He stood and buttoned his rumpled coat around his forty-
four-inch chest. All of a sudden he was glad he'd dropped
that postsmoking weight. Those trips to the gym might've
been worth it, too.

But he didn't need any distractions at the moment, or
anything confusing his feelings. Eyes on the prize, he
told himself. First we take down the pond scum in that
apartment. He surveyed the phalanx of men surrounding him
on the street, as well as the similar lineup on the
rooftop of the office building just behind. Even if he
didn't particularly care to acknowledge it, Swift had done
a first-rate job organizing this detail. She had everyone
in place and ready to roll. There was no way those child-
abusing monsters were going to escape this net. It was
just a matter of time, a thought which filled him with a
strange warmth. If only there was some way to accelerate
the process.

Off to the left, he spotted two familiar faces moving in
his direction.

"Stand at attention, Special Agent," he said, raising his
voice so she could hear. "The parents."

Two well-dressed adults arrived at about the same time she
did. The man was wearing a tailored suit and a starched
white shirt. The woman wore a dark dress and clutched a DK
handbag. At first blush, Mike read the man as angry, which
meant guilt-ridden, and read the woman as angry, which
meant terrified. But he supposed he could be wrong. He had
been wrong before. Once.

"I'm Harrison Metzger. Which one of you is in charge?"

"I am," they both answered, Swift, because she was, and
Mike, because he had the irresistible urge to give her ego
a tweak. They exchanged a pointed look.

"I'm a homicide detective for Tulsa PD," Mike
explained. "I'm in charge of the homicide case. This is
Special Agent Swift with the FBI's Child Abduction Task
Force. She's in charge of the kidnapping case."

Metzger turned to Agent Swift. They always went to the
Fed, Mike noted. The Oklahoma inferiority complex. Anyone
from out of town had to be smarter than a local. "I want
to know what's being done to save my son. Looks to me like
you're all just sitting around on your asses."

To her credit, Swift remained unruffled but not
unsympathetic. "Mr. Metzger—"

"Dr. Metzger."

"Doctor," she corrected. "I've had my public relations
liaison brief you every hour. I think you know everything
we do. We're waiting for an opportunity—"

"Who are these people, anyway?"

"The kidnappers? We don't know their names. We believe
there are four of them, working together. The one who
keeps speaking into the bullhorn is obviously male. The
others, we're not sure."

"I don't understand why this is taking so long. You know
where my boy is. Go in and get him!"

"Sir, I can assure you that—"

"Before, your excuse was that you didn't know where they
were. Now you've got them surrounded, and you're still not
doing anything!"

Mrs. Metzger stayed a safe distance behind her husband.
Mike had the sense that she was embarrassed by her
husband's tirade, but she knew better than to interfere.

"We don't think it would be prudent to storm the
apartment. We know they're armed—"

"Aren't your people armed?"

"Of course."

"So what's the problem? Show some balls, girl."

Agent Swift paused barely a beat before responding. "Sir,
I can assure you that when the time is right for action,
we will take it. But at the moment, our top priority is
getting your son out safely, which means avoiding, if
possible, an exchange of fire that might endanger—"

"This is what happens when you put a woman in charge." He
shifted his gaze to Mike. "Is there something you can do,
Major?"

"I'm just here to support Agent Swift, sir. Whether you
realize it or not, she's playing this by the book. And
doing a first-rate job of it."

"Do you people know how long my son has been their
captive?" His confrontational mask cracked a
fraction. "There's no telling what . . . what they might
have done to him!"

"I understand your concern, Mr. Metzger—"

"Dr. Metzger."

Mike drew in his breath. The man was a Ph.D., which, to
his mind, barely counted and certainly didn't justify
constant correction. But this was not the time to
digress. "Dr. Metzger, from the start, we have moved as
quickly as possible. And that hasn't changed. But what's
most important is that we get Tommy out alive. Remember,
the ransom demand came in almost immediately, and you paid
it according to their directions. We have no reason to
believe the boy has been molested."

That, of course, was a lie, statistically speaking,
anyway. As Mike knew all too well, more than 90 percent of
all noncustody- related child kidnappings involved some
form of molestation. But in most cases the child turned up
again relatively soon, after the kidnapper had taken what
he wanted. When the child was held for longer than twenty-
four hours, the statistics became far more grim. Less than
50 percent of those kids ever made it home again.

Tommy Metzger had been gone for eight days.

"What about poison gas?" Metzger continued. "What about a
flamethrower? I want those men laid low! I want them to
pay for what they've done to my family!"

On the other side of the street, Mike saw that a minicam
reporter had spotted them and was recording the whole
scene. Probably had one of those ultrapowerful spy mikes
that can pick up conversations from miles away. Odds were
this argument would be rehashed on the six o'clock news.