"EVERYONE, SHUT UP! All of you—get down and put your faces on the floor!" The man punctuated his order with a half-dozen shots fired into the air from a submachine gun. Chunks of ceiling plaster fell onto the marble floor. In a few seconds, everyone lay flat, no one moving a muscle, the echoes of their shocked screams thick in the air. Savich's first thought was Thank God, Sean's not here with me. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, pressed two keys on his cell phone, and remained as still as the twenty other people in the First Union Bank of Washington, D.C. He heard some sobs, but for the most part everyone lay on their stomachs in heart-racing, petrified silence, noses against the marble floor.

He heard Sherlock's voice. "Hello? Hello?"

The man screamed, "You worker bees behind the counter, don't even think of pressing the alarm! You—yes, you, Mr. Loan Officer— get me the bank manager, now! Now, or this asshole dies!" Savich slowly shifted his head to see Buzz Riley, the security guard, an ex- cop Savich had known for five years, with a snub-nosed .38 barrel stuck in his ear by a man maybe two inches taller than Riley was, with a lanky build and big hands that made the .38 look like a toy.

Savich knew who they were, and it wasn't good. The media had dubbed them the Gang of Four, and they had made a name for themselves as they zigzagged their way across Kentucky and Virginia during the past four weeks, and now they were making their debut bank robbery here in D.C. What was different about this group was that two of the four robbers were women. That, and the fact they were killers. When they burst into a bank, people died. To date, six people had been killed, all four bank security guards and two customers. Riley had to be scared out of his mind.

Another robber fired a spurt of bullets into the air that thudded against the high, old-fashioned ceiling, raining down more plaster, digging into the graceful 1930s molding, sending chunks of wood flying down. This time there weren't any screams, only a couple of sharp, gasping breaths, then silence. No one moved. From the corner of his eye, Savich saw they were using Colt nine-millimeter submachine guns, deadly and fast, thirty-two rounds a clip.

Another robber, this one a woman, yelled, "Where is the manager?" Mac Jamison—proud of his thick mustache, too heavy but just about ready to join the gym, he'd told Savich—walked slowly through the doors from the back, his hands clasped behind his head. "I'm Jamison. I'm the manager."

The woman said, "Think of me as your friendly Easter Bunny here to gather up my eggs," and laughed. Like the other three, she was dressed all in black, a black ski mask covering her head and face. "I know you got your delivery from the Federal Reserve, so don't give me any butt-stupid crap about not having any money here. Now, you and I are taking a trip to the vault and loading up."

"But—"

"Move!" she screamed, and sprayed a dozen bullets from her Colt, not a foot away from Jamison's head. Savich heard a window explode. She walked right up to Jamison and poked the gun barrel in his gut.

"Now!"

One of the other robbers followed her, fanning his Colt around, whistling, of all things, covering her back. That left the other woman and the man holding Riley around the neck. She was in his line of sight, small and in constant motion, sweeping her weapon over the employees and the bank customers. Fear poured off the rows of still bodies, lacing the air with a rancid smell. Savich lay flat on his belly at the edge of the group.

He saw her scuffed-black-booted feet coming toward him. She stopped. He felt the weight of her gaze, her sharp intake of breath. "Hey, I know who you are."

This wasn't a woman's voice; this voice was young, high with excitement, a girl's voice. She kicked him in the ribs. "Well, ain't this my lucky day. Jeff, look at what we got. He's that FBI guy. Remember, we saw him on TV a couple of weeks ago?" She kicked him again, harder. "Big bastard federal cop. You're the one who brought down those rich old dorks, right?"

Jeff, the guy holding Riley, shouted, "Pay attention, kid. You're supposed to keep your eye on all these bugs, make sure they don't try to crawl away or do anything dumb. Mind your own. He's not important."

Her voice went higher, shriller. How old was she? "Didn't you hear me? I said he's this hotshot FBI agent!"

"Yeah, so who cares? Flat on his belly now, isn't he?" And Jeff laughed. For the hell of it, he kicked a woman bank employee in the leg. She flinched but didn't make a sound.

Her voice pumped with adrenaline, she said, "Hey, jerk, you are him, aren't you?"

Savich looked up full into her masked face. She was fine-boned, thin, probably had to stretch to make five-foot-three. He stared into her wild, excited dark eyes glittering behind the black ski mask.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm that jerk."

She sang out, laughing, "I got me a bona fide FBI agent, right here at my feet. What a suuuprize! You scared yet, big man? I'm gonna get to kill me a real-life FBI agent!"

Jeff said, "Until we've got our money, we're not popping anybody."

Jeff sounded on the manic side himself, forty years old, maybe fifty, a smoker's voice, and, like the girl, he seemed to be in perpetual motion.

Savich heard Mac Jamison yell, "No!" Then there was a single gunshot, obscenely loud in the close confines of the vault. The two robbers came running out carrying dark cloth bags stuffed with money.

In a voice frenzied with manic pleasure and excitement, the girl sang, "You got my birthday present?"

The woman yelled, "I sure do, sweetie! Now, let's get out of here. Okay, Jeff, take care of business!"

"I got me some business too!" the girl sang out, her voice jumping high and uncontrolled.

Jeff, the robber holding Riley, shouted out, "Bye-bye, dirtbag!"

Savich had a second, no more, and no choice.

He rolled into the young woman's legs, knocking her off balance, and kicked up hard into her stomach. She yelled in pain as she staggered backward, dropping her Colt as she waved her arms to keep her balance. As she fell, he pulled his SIG from his belt clip, rolled, and shot the man holding Riley in the middle of his forehead.

Riley ducked down fast, whirled around, shoved the man backward, grabbed his .38 right out of his hand, and opened fire at the man and woman holding the money. The woman yelled and fired back, spraying bullets everywhere, into the furniture, into the walls, shattering windows, kicking up shards of marble. People were screaming, some trying to scramble to their feet, others curled with their arms over their heads. This wasn't good; people would die.

"Everyone, stay down!" Savich yelled. He lunged behind a desk as bullets ripped through the computer monitor six inches above him, spraying chunks of glass into the air. A bullet struck the keyboard, kicked it into the air, and it shattered, raining shards of plastic. Too close, too close. He rolled to the far side, came up onto his elbows, and fired at the robber whose weapon was swinging around toward him. He shot him in the arm. The robber yelled in pain and anger, and fired back, a hot, fast dozen rounds. When the Colt's magazine was empty, he didn't seem to realize it at first and pulled frantically on the trigger, cursing. He threw the Colt to the floor as he ran for the front door, a sack of money over his shoulder like Santa carrying a bag of presents. He pulled a pistol out of his jacket and yelled, "Let's get out of here, now!"

The woman screamed, "No! Jay, come back here! Help Lissy! She's down!" But Jay didn't stop. She began firing again, not at Savich this time but at Jay, who was running out on her. He heard screams and yells, a crazed dissonant cacophony of sounds, male and female, saw people pressing together, their arms over their heads. He prayed as he came up fast and fired. She jerked when his bullet hit her in the side. Her curses mixed with the screams, but the bullet didn't stop her. She was firing again, wildly, out of control. It would be a matter of seconds until people started dying. Savich fired again but missed her as she jerked to the side. Suddenly Riley shouted at her. When she whipped around toward him, Riley fired a single shot. Her neck exploded, and blood fountained out in a huge arching spray. She dropped her weapon and the bag of money, grabbing her neck. Savich watched the blood spurt out from between her fingers. Her Colt skidded across the floor and fetched up against the tellers' counter as she fell, gagging and keening as she choked on her own blood. The bag of money went skating the other way, hit a desk, and broke open, sending sheaves of hundred-dollar bills billowing out, fluttering down over the people on the floor. Savich saw the girl he'd kicked in the stomach elbowing her way across the floor toward the downed woman, sliding in the blood, screaming over and over, "No, no, no—this was supposed to be fun, this was our big score—"

He brought his boot down in the middle of her back, flattening her. "Stay still. It's over." She was crying, gasping with pain, trying to bring her legs up, but he held her still.

"Dillon!"

He turned toward the most beautiful voice he'd heard in his life, Sherlock's voice. His foot lightened, and the young girl reached under her black sweater and jerked out a .22. He saw the flash of movement as she yelled, "Die, you bastard!" He felt the bullet split the air not an inch from his ear. He dropped his full weight flat on her and slammed his fist against her temple.

The bank alarm went off.

Savich heard another dozen shots and his heart stopped. Then, to his blessed relief, he heard Agent Ruth Warnecki scream from the now open door of the bank, "Hold your fire! He's down, he's down!" They'd gotten the robber who'd run out of the bank.

Agent Ollie Hamish shouted over the pandemonium and the wildly screeching alarm, "Okay, folks, it's all over now. We're FBI. Is anyone hurt?"

Savich yelled, "Ollie, the manager is in the vault. They shot him. Riley, shut down that alarm!"

Sherlock fell to her knees beside him. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay."

"What's this?"

Savich knelt beside the girl, turned her over, and jerked off the ski mask. He looked at her young face, deathly white, mouth bloodied from biting against the pain, dark hair matted to her head. "This is one of them, Sherlock. She's only a kid." The girl moaned, her eyelashes fluttering. When her eyes opened, he stared down into her pain-glazed dark eyes. He leaned close. "What's your name?"

She spit at him.

"What's your name?" he repeated.

The kid snarled, "I'm going to kill you, shoot you in the head, watch it explode."

"Charming," Sherlock said.

"I kicked her pretty hard in the stomach. She needs an ambulance." She was whimpering now, tears clogging in her throat, choking her, and she was saying over and over, "Mama, Mama. I want my mama." "The manager's shot in the chest," Ollie shouted. "I've got pressure on it. An ambulance is on the way."

"Get another one," Savich shouted.

Agent Dane Carver was helping people to their feet, patting backs, and checking for injuries, his FBI voice smooth and easy. "It's okay now. Everyone's okay—try to stay calm. Everyone head on over here and sit down. We'll get everything sorted out. That's right, breathe deeply. It's over."

Buzz Riley's voice rose over all of them, authoritative as a drill sergeant's: "Sherry, Anne, Tim, get everyone settled over in the New Accounts department. Everyone, please stay together. It's all over. Hear those sirens? More backup. Everything's under control." Savich spoke to Special Agent Raymond Marley, four-year SAC of the Washington field office, as several agents took positions throughout the bank, calming people down. "I think it's the Gang of Four, two men, two women. This was their first foray into D.C."

Ray said, "Savich, how'd you get here so fast?"

"I was one of the customers."

"Not their lucky day to have the wolfhound in the herd. Didn't turn out well for them, did it?"

It could have, Savich thought. It could have turned out very differently. The paramedics came charging through, a dozen WPD uniforms trailing them.

In under a minute, the EMTs had Mac Jamison strapped to a gurney. Savich and Sherlock ran to catch up with them. Jamison's eyes were closed, and an oxygen mask covered his face. One of the EMTs applied pressure to his blood-soaked chest wound. "Is he going to make it?"

"He'd better," the EMT said. "I get real grouchy if anybody buys it on my watch." Seconds later they were gone.

The next set of paramedics took charge of the teenage girl whose mama lay dead not a dozen feet away, soaked in blood from her torn carotid artery. Blood was streaking in all directions across the marble floor; a dozen customers stared numbly at the snaking thick red rivers.

Bank employees were hovering around the customers, holding it together. They'd been trained for this, like flight attendants, but Savich was sure the training hadn't come close to the terrifying reality. He admired their courage. He walked over to the group. "Who's the assistant manager?"

"I am, Agent Savich," a woman said. "Is Mac going to be all right?"

"The EMT told me he was going to make it." Just a small exaggeration, but the relief flooding all the faces around him made it worthwhile. "If you guys could keep everyone calm for a while longer, I'd really appreciate it."

Four FBI agents and a couple of local cops stood staring down at the woman. It was hard to tell she was soaked in her own blood since she was dressed entirely in black. Someone had pulled off her black mask. She was about thirty-five, he thought, dark-haired and darkeyed like her daughter. She had soft white skin and hard eyes, now empty of life.

Buzz Riley came to stand by him. "I've heard of this group, of course, got bulletins on each of their jobs. Mac and I even discussed them over lunch the other day. He said they always knew when a bank got a cash delivery from the Federal Reserve. I knew they killed all the bank security guards on their way out, but I'll tell you, Savich, I never dreamed they'd come here to Georgetown. Neither did Mac.

None of us were very worried, even though Mac brought up that shoot-out of yours at the Barnes and Noble. I'll tell you, when the guy shoved that thirty-eight in my ear, I thought I was a dead man." Buzz paused a moment, swallowed hard. "Thanks, Savich. Lordy, when I tell my kids how you brought one of the robbers down and saved my life, expect a dozen excited calls."

"We're about even on that score, Buzz."

Buzz waved that away. He said, his voice still hyper, "You know, when I heard women were part of the group, I didn't know if I believed it, in my gut, you know? I mean, Bonnie Parker hit the scene long before I was even born. But this, Savich, bringing her kid with her to rob a bank. Can you figure that?"

No, Savich couldn't figure it.

"That girl—she was vicious, whacked out. I bet I'll be seeing more white hairs than I had five minutes before these bozos came charging into the bank." Buzz put his hand on Savich's arm. "You know what? When I believed in my gut I'd reached the end, I saw my grandmother, isn't that strange? I think I was a little kid and she was yelling something at me." He swallowed, shook his head.

Savich said, "It was close, but only Mac got hurt, that's what's amazing, with all those bullets flying around."

"We lucked out. We surely did." Buzz grinned over at Sherlock, who was speaking to the assistant manager. "Your wife, right? Mac told me about her, said she was a pistol, said he was looking forward to seeing her at the gym."

AFTER THREE HOURS OF exhaustive debriefing at the Hoover Building, Savich took a call from Jumbo Hardy of The Washington Post. Jumbo said only one word, "Why?"

"One of the robbers had a gun in the security guard's ear. He was going to kill him for the sport of it."

Jumbo was silent for a moment. "That's Buzz Riley, right? Retired cop?"

"Yes."

A pause, then, "I spoke to him. He told me that girl was going to kill you too. Jeez, Savich, that was a hell of a risk you took." It beat lying there watching Buzz get his brains blown out, Savich thought, and knew his own brains had been on the line too. He said what he'd said a dozen times already, the last time to Director Mueller himself: "I had no choice and no time. I had to act." Savich could hear Hardy typing on his laptop.

"Oh, yeah, I checked the hospital. The girl you kicked in the gut— of all things, you injured her duodenum, and maybe her pancreas, something the doctors only see in auto accidents. My friends at the hospital tell me she's in surgery. She'll probably make it, but she's not going to be a happy camper for a while. You know her name?"

Of course they knew all the robbers' names now. "Good try, Jumbo. You know I can't give that out yet."

"I hear the FBI agents who'd just pulled up outside the bank brought down the fourth bank robber as he was fleeing. That right?"

It was, but Savich said, "We're still sorting everything out. I'm sure you can get all the details from Mr. Maitland."

More typing on the laptop, then, "Hey, Savich, I wouldn't be surprised if a bank customer sues you for endangering his life."

He wouldn't be surprised either, Savich thought as he punched off his cell, given the deadening fear and the human need to blame someone when bad things happen. And the robbers were all dead except for the teenage girl. As he pulled on his jacket, he remembered the hundred-dollar bills scattered over the bank floor, some of them floating on the rivulets of blood from Jennifer Smiley's neck. He closed his office door, saw Sherlock, and went to her.

"Good move with your cell," she said, and hugged him. He held her carefully, a habit now, since her surgery two months before. "I've told everyone else, but not you, Dillon. We were on the road in a minute, no longer. We heard everything on the speakerphone. Riley told me the girl was going to kill you, Dillon, she was just going to shoot you and dash out of the bank, laughing." She hugged him tighter.

Agent Ruth Warnecki said, "He's alive, Sherlock, and I'd say he deserves a pizza." She paused, turned to stare hard at Savich. "Sherlock might be used to you playing fast and loose with your hide, but I'm not. I'm asking you real nice, Dillon, don't do that again, okay?" He managed a grin. "Do you know I was at the bank to check on Sean's college fund? There was some sort of entry error that I couldn't deal with online." He shook his head, laughed at life's improbabilities. He said, "You're right, Ruth, a pizza sounds good."

AT ELEVEN O'CLOCK that night, Mr. Maitland called to tell him they'd found the getaway car, the image captured by ATM cameras. It was a black Dodge 2008 Grand Caravan, with swivel seats and a backseat TV. It had been stolen four days earlier from a Cranston, Virginia, dentist, and left on a side road outside Ladderville, Maryland. There was no sign of the driver but lots of fingerprints.

"I guess they should call it the Gang of Five then, since someone had to be driving that van," Savich said.

"Let's just hope this bozo's prints are in the system."