The ring leader perused the tinfoiled submarined sandwiches in the food box. "OK, it's not that I don't trust the cops … but, I don't trust the cops. The hostages will be taste the food."

He looked over to the hostages. "You, daughter of famous TV broadcaster, come here."

"No!" Tiffany said strongly.

"So you don't trust the cops either, Ms. Hill?"

"I trust the cops," Tiffany said straight-forwardly. "But I'll do it."

"Fine."

"Mom, I…" Maren started.

"It's OK, sweetheart." Tiffany rose and waited to get permission to walk over to the box.

"Be my guest," the ring leader said.

Tiffany crossed and gingerly picked up one of the sandwiches. She unwrapped it gently, took a decidedly unladylike bite and swallowed. "Seems fine to me," she tried to say brightly. The ring leader gave her a bottle of water. "Thank you," she said in a clipped tone, opening the bottle and taking a drink.

"We'll wait a few minutes to make sure," the ring leader said, settling into one of the bank arm chairs.

Maren watched her mother with concern. She didn't know whether the police might have done something to the food, but she feared it was a possibility. And there was her mom, the person she had taken for granted for so long, stepping up seemingly without fear in her place.

Outside, Sean was renewing acquaintances with the WSB agents on hand. Since he had taken over as police chief in Boston, they had crossed paths every once in a while. Mattison was the one in charge, and he was the one Sean liked and trusted the least.

"Have they identified themselves yet"? Mattison inquired.

"No, not by name, although their actions definitely are pointing toward something more than a garden-variety bank job," Sean said.

"And your wife and daughter are among the hostages," Mattison added.

"Yes, they are," Sean said stiffly.

"Well according to World Security Bureau guidelines, you shouldn't be involved in this in any way, shape or form."

"First of all, no longer work for the WSB…

"Donely, you know no one really retires from the WSB," Mattison interrupted.

"(Ignoring him) And second of all, I'm not going anywhere."

"I figured you would say that," Mattison said. "But the WSB has jurisdiction, so if you insist on staying here…"

It was Sean's turn to interrupt. "I insist on staying here."

"…then you'll have to play it the way we say it," Mattison finished.

"Fine," Sean said, not exactly happy about the option, even though he was expecting that to be the case.

"They asked for food, water, blankets, a television and cell phones," Reynolds offered. "I understand the first four things, but what do they want cell phones for. They know that we have a direct land line into the bank and they're obviously not going to be stupid enough to use the cell phones to make personal calls."

"They asked for a specific brand of cell phone, right?" Mattison asked.

"Yes, top-of-the-line with music, video and photo capabilities," Reynolds said.

"It's for video purposes," Mattison explained. "We've been seeing a lot of this lately. They can take pictures or video of the scene and send it out to us when we require proof that the hostages are all right. The images that we'll receive will be grainy and so they're not exactly definitive when it comes to building court cases."

A couple WSB guys pulled Mattison aside. After a brief conversation, Mattison stepped back over to Sean and Reynolds. "The hostage negotiating team is in place. We're going to try and make contact."

The phone resonated loudly in the silent bank.

"Right on time," the ring leader chuckled. "Love the ol' World Security Bureau." He crossed to the phone and picked it up. "Hostage Central."

"Very funny," the negotiator said on the other end.

"Aren't you supposed to be subservient and ask me what my demands are?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. How can I help you today?" the negotiator asked.

"We're doing all right now, all enjoying some lunch courtesy of the Boston Police Department."

"Is everyone in there all right? Does anyone need medical attention?"

"Everyone is fine right now. I hope you'll be doing everything you can to ensure they stay that way."

"Yes, of course. The phone is directly linked to me, so when you want to say something all you have to do is pick it up."

"Fine. I'll be in touch," the ring leader said cheekily before hanging up.

Over by the hostages, bad guys 2 and 3 were distributing food. 2, a rugged dirty-blonde man in a white t-shirt and blue jeans, offered a sandwich to Maren. She snatched it out of his hands without a word.

"No thank you? Who raised you?" 2 said lightly.

"None of your damn business, Mr. Manners," an angry Maren replied.

"OK," 2 said, turning to pass the next sandwich.

"Aren't you guys worried about the fact we can see your faces?" she questioned.

"I wouldn't ask questions like that if I were you," 2 said, turning back to her.

Maren studied his face the way her father taught her to when she was very young. She'd be able to give a detailed sketch of him and all the others when she had to.

"We're not afraid," 2 said.

You should be, Maren thought, looking at him. He was studying her intently, she could tell he was trying to read her mind, and probably succeeding.

"Enough with the chit-chat over there," the ring leader said. 2 turned away from her and continued to dole out the food.

Maren looked over to her mother, who shook her head in warning. She wondered what her dad was doing, thinking back to that morning when he kissed her on the head and caressed her hair as he always did. He had chided them about not maxing out the credit card, as he always did, before leaving for the day. He wished he was there now, to comfort her the way he always had when she was young and had had a nightmare. She would go to her parents' bedroom and always wake just him up by putting her hand in his. Her father would look across to make sure her mother hadn't woken up, then would ease his way out of bed and they'd walk back to her bedroom. He'd ask her what she dreamed about while gently brushing her hair and before she knew it, she'd fall back asleep. She always woke the next morning not remembering what the nightmare had been. Maren closed her eyes and wished she could do that right now.

Sean's eyes were closed too as he leaned against Mattison's car. They had nothing to go on so far. No idea of what was going on in that bank. In his head, he was imagining the most terrible scenarios.

"Donely!" Mattison said, and his eyes popped open. "We've gotten some sketches from the hostages, we're running them through the computer now."

"At least that's something."

"Have there been any other bank-related incidents in the past few weeks?" Mattison inquired.

"Nothing major that I can think of. I'll call my assistant and have her double-check the reports to make sure," Sean said.

"Fine," Mattison said and walked away.

Sean pulled out his cell phone and looked down at the address book. No. 1 on the list merely said "Wife," No. 2 "Daughter," he paused for a second, thinking about them, before hitting No. 3 "Ellie."

Ellie was sitting in the office, watching two monitors. On the left was television coverage of the event. On the right was a police view of the scene, broken into four quadrants. She had seen Sean go for his cell phone, so she wasn't surprised when the phone rang a couple seconds later.

"Yes, boss. What can I do for you?"

"The World Security Bureau wants to know of any police activity at any of the banks in the greater Boston area over the past month or so, can you run through the reports and see if anything pops up?"

"Of course. I'll call you right back." She hung up quickly, knowing that her boss' penchant for whatever results she could come up with was more important than exchanging good-byes or even queries' about how he was doing.

Ellie deftly maneuvered her way on the computer and started running a search on the Boston Police Department.