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spent-fuel pond. Powerful spotlights illuminated the scene in broad
    swaths of yellow.
    The trail of destruction left by the terrorist's SUV told a tale of its own. A smashed gate arm at the checkpoint, a path blazed through the brush, and an overrun section of chain-link fence, flat on the ground, aligned with a second, identical breach in a second fence. Curls of tire lay on the ground past the fallen concertina wire, just inside the compound. A clipped generator box continued to throw up sparks. Thirty yards of concrete scored by the Jeep's metal rims. And at the end of the trail, angled up the three broad concrete steps and embedded in the doorway as if of a piece with the building, was the red Cherokee I'd been watching on TV mere hours ago from the anonymity of my bed.
    We descended into a typhoon of dirt and sand. Soldiers cleared the makeshift landing zone, squinting against the gritty wind. My left knee was bouncing. This couldn't be real.
    We set down with a thump, and the overhead whirring finally began to die away.
    There was no more time.
    "We need you to do this now," Wydell said. He held out the cell phone to me.
    I reached out an unsteady hand and took it.
    Sever leaned over and tore open the helicopter door. A number of agents jogged toward us, assault rifles bouncing on their slings.
    Wydell grabbed my shoulder. "Get him away from that spent-fuel pond. Don't give him the phone unless he's away from the water. A few steps is enough. He claims to be loaded with explosives. Given this guy's volatility . . ."
    I nodded, my stomach churning. "You sure you guys know what you're doing?"
    "Who do we call in case of emergency?"
    Not the answer I was looking for.
    An agent reached in and clutched my arm, tugging me. "This is him?"
    The seat belt jerked me at the waist, and I fought the buckle free and stepped out. Kicked-up dust coated my lungs. I coughed, and then a wet sea breeze blew the air clear, chilling me through my thin clothes.
    The agent hustled me forward, Wydell and Sever behind us. Dozens of men stopped talking into phones and radios and to one another; scores of heads pivoted to watch me. I drew even with the line of Hummers and soldiers and agents at the perimeter, maybe thirty yards back from the spent - fuel building. The crashed Jeep was lit up as if onstage.
    I heard Sever's gruff voice behind me. "Go on."
    I turned and looked at him. Wydell, at his side, nodded urgently. "Good luck, Nick."
    All around us sharpshooters crouched behind Hummers and cop cars. A young Latin soldier had the end of his crucifix between his lips, sucking it. I stared back at the empty, unprotected ground between the perimeter and the building. A stretch of concrete that even the soldiers and agents didn't
    dare set foot on.
    I stepped out from cover, my Pumas padding
    across the concrete, the broken plastic of my left sneaker giving off its maddening click. A spotlight tracked my movement. Twenty yards. The wet wind came off the Pacific, biting at my arms, my neck, my bare ankles. I was shivering. In my thin T-shirt and pajama bottoms, I felt naked, oddly self-conscious yet dissolved into my surroundings at the same time. I sensed every part of my body and everything around me--the cool air filling my chest, the grind of stray sand particles underfoot, the tuning-fork vibration of my arms. Ten yards. I braced for flame to burst out of the building and engulf me. The scrapes in the concrete from the tire rims grew deeper as I approached. And then I was there.
    The violence of the Jeep's collision with the doorframe was striking. The double doors had been flung back into the building, one tilting from a hardy hinge, and the wall around had crumbled to accommodate the broad snout of the vehicle, which perfectly plugged the hole it had created.
    I stopped and looked behind me. The perimeter seemed miles away. All those trained men and women, tucked behind cop cars and cargo trucks. I felt suddenly isolated out in