Fletcher, after all, was a master. He was my mentor. He wrote the book on proactive procedure, and he breathed and slept tactical negotiation. He could talk a bird down from the tree; he could sell ice to an Eskimo. He’d taken issue with the President; he’d crossed swords with the CIA. And now he trained newbies like me to crash in after him and fuck things up.

Well, okay, so that’s why I went in, in the first place, right? Because of him. Fletcher. Yeah, he wrote the book—but I’ve lived it. Some gut feeling made me think he might need help; and there was no chapter in the training manual on that subject. That gut feeling helped me see Mad, Hungry Guy’s hidden handgun just a fraction before he did. Before Fletcher did.

What followed was so not like the movies I’ll never pay my entrance fee to a blockbuster again, not even for the popcorn. Fletcher might have been calling to me to watch out for myself, though I think the only thing I actually heard him murmur was ‘Butt out, you moron’. I might have misheard because of the roaring in my ears, of course. Or the panicky, scary thudding of my heart. I didn’t stop to ask – I just leaped forward in front of him and went to take the Mad, Hungry Guy down.

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