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both of them were in their mid to late twenties.
    Mr. Blue was already in the manager’s office at the First Union branch. He was explaining the rules of the game of “truth or consequences” to James Bartlett and his assistant manager.
    “Nobody has any panic buttons on them?” Mr. Blue asked in a fast, high-pitched voice that was
intended
to communicate that he was tense and maybe close to losing it. “That would be a serious mistake, and there can be
no
mistakes.”
    “We don’t have panic buttons,” said the bank manager, who seemed smart enough and eager to please. “I would tell you if we did.”
    “You ever listen to the training tapes put out by the American Society for Industrial Security?” Blue asked.
    “N-no, I haven’t,” the bank manager answered with a nervous stutter. “I’m — I’m — s-sorry.”
    “Well, their number one recommendation during a robbery is cooperation so that no one gets hurt.”
    The manager nodded his head rapidly. “I agree with that. I hear you. I’m cooperating, sir.”
    “You’re a pretty smart guy for a bank manager. Everything I told you about your family being held as hostages is the absolute
truth.
I want you to always tell me the truth, too. Or there will be unfortunate
consequences.
That means
no
trip alarms,
no
bait money,
no
dye packs,
no
hidden cameras. If Sonitrol has a device in here that’s recording me now, tell me.”
    “I know about the job at the Citibank in Silver Spring,” the manager said. His wide, square face was beet red. Perspiration dripped from his forehead in large drops. His blue eyes blinked repeatedly.
    “Watch your computer screen,” Mr. Blue said, and pointed with his gun. “Watch it.”
    A film sequence came up, and the manager saw his wife putting black tape on the mouths of his three children.
    “Oh, God! I know that the manager in Silver Spring was late. Let’s get going,” he said to the ski-masked man in his office. “My family is everything to me.”
    “We know,” Blue said. He turned to the assistant manager. He pointed the gun at her. “You’re not a hero, are you, Ms. Collins?”
    She shook her head of soft red curls. “No, sir, I’m not. The bank’s money is not my money. It isn’t worth dying for. It isn’t worth Mr. Bartlett’s children dying for.”
    Mr. Blue smiled under his mask. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
    He turned back to the manager. “I have children, you have children. We don’t want them to be fatherless,” he said. It was the Mastermind’s line and an effective one, he thought. “Let’s get going.”
    They hurried to the main vault, which had a dual combination and needed both Bartlett and his assistant manager to open it. In less than sixty seconds, the vault was open.
    Mr. Blue then held up a silver metal device for all to see; it looked like a TV remote control. “This is a police scanner,” he said. “If the police or the FBI are alerted and come our way, I’ll know as soon as they do. And then you two, and also the two tellers, die. Are there any trip alarms inside the vault?”
    The manager shook his head. “No, sir. There are no secret alarms. You have my word.”
    Mr. Blue smiled again behind his mask. “Then let’s go get my money. Move it!”
    Blue had just about finished loading up the cash when his police scanner suddenly picked up an alert.
“Robbery in progress at First Union Bank, downtown Falls Church.”
    He swiveled toward James Bartlett and shot the bank manager dead. Then he turned and shot Ms. Collins through the forehead.
    Just the way it had been planned.

Chapter 17
    THE SIREN ON THE ROOF OF MY CAR was screaming.
    So was my body.
    And my brain.
    I arrived at the First Union Bank in Falls Church, Virginia, at almost the same time that Kyle Craig and his FBI team got there.
    A black helicopter was just settling into the mostly empty shopping-mall parking area directly behind the bank. Kyle and three other agents climbed out of the