THE KILLING HOUR
Lisa Gardner
Bantam
Thriller
ISBN: 0553584529

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Chapter One

Quantico, Virginia

3:59 p.m.

Temperature: 95 degrees

"God, it's hot. Cacti couldn't take this kind of heat. Desert rock couldn't take this kind of heat. I'm telling you, this is what happened right before dinosaurs disappeared from the Earth."

No response.

"You really think orange is my color?" the driver tried again.

"Really is a strong word."

"Well, not everyone can make a statement in purple plaid."

"True."

"Man-oh-man, is this heat killing me!" The driver, New Agent Alissa Sampson, had had enough. She tugged futilely on her 1970s polyester suit, smacked the steering wheel with the palm of her hand, then blew out an exasperated breath. It was ninety-five outside, probably one hundred and ten inside the Bucar. Not great weather for polyester suits. For that matter, it didn't work wonders for bulletproof vests. Alissa's suit bled bright orange stains under her arms. New Agent Kimberly Quincy's own mothball-scented pink-and-purple plaid suit didn't look much better.

Outside the car, the street was quiet. Nothing happening at Billiards; nothing happening at City Pawn; nothing happening at the Pastime Bar-Deli. Minute ticked into minute. Seconds came and went, as slowly as the bead of sweat trickling down Kimberly's cheek. Above her head, still fastened to the roof but ready to go at any minute, was her M-16.

"Here's something they never tell you about the disco age," Alissa muttered beside her. "Polyester doesn't breathe. God, is this thing going to happen or what?"

Alissa was definitely nervous. A forensic accountant before joining the Bureau, she was highly valued for her deep-seated love of all things spreadsheet. Give Alissa a computer and she was in hog heaven. This, however, wasn't a back-room gig. This was front-line duty.

In theory, at any time now, a black vehicle bearing a two-hundred-and-ten-pound heavily armed suspected arms dealer was going to appear. He might or might not be alone in the car. Kimberly, Alissa, and three other agents had orders to halt the vehicle and arrest everyone in sight.

Phil Lehane, a former New York cop and the one with the most street experience, was leading the operation. Tom Squire and Peter Vince were in the first of the two backup vehicles. Alissa and Kimberly were in the second backup. Kimberly and Tom, being above-average marksmen, had cover duty with the rifles. Alissa and Peter were in charge of tactical driving, plus had handguns for cover.

In consummate FBI style, they not only planned and dressed for this arrest, but they had practiced it in advance. During the initial run-through, however, Alissa had tripped when getting out of the car and had landed on her face. Her upper lip was still swollen and there were flecks of blood on the right-hand corner of her mouth.

Her wounds were superficial. Her anxiety, however, now went bone deep.

"This is taking too long," she was muttering now. "I thought he was supposed to appear at the bank at four. It's four-ten. I don't think he's coming."

"People run late."

"They do this just to mess with our minds. Aren't you boiling?"

Kimberly finally looked at her partner. When Alissa was nervous, she babbled. When Kimberly was nervous, she grew clipped and curt. These days, she was clipped and curt most of the time. "The guy will show up when the guy shows up. Now chill out!"

Alissa thinned her lips. For a second, something flared in her bright blue eyes. Anger. Hurt. Embarrassment. It was hard to be sure. Kimberly was another woman in the male-run world of the Bureau, so criticism coming from her was akin to blasphemy. They were supposed to stick together. Girl power, the Ya Ya Sisterhood, and all that crap.

Kimberly went back to gazing at the street. Now she was angry, too. Damn. Double-damn. Shit.

The radio on the dash suddenly crackled to life. Alissa swooped up the receiver without bothering to hide her relief.

Phil Lehane's voice was hushed but steady: "This is Vehicle A. Target now in sight, climbing into his vehicle. Ready, Vehicle B?"

"Ready."

"Ready, Vehicle C?"

Alissa clicked the receiver. "Ready, willing, and able."

"We go on three. One, two, THREE."

The first siren exploded across the hot, sweltering street, and even though Kimberly had been expecting the noise, she still flinched in her seat.

"Easy," Alissa said dryly, then fired the Bucar to life. A blast of hot air promptly burst from the vents into their faces, but now both were too grim to notice. Kimberly reached for her rifle. Alissa's foot hovered above the gas.

The sirens screamed closer. Not yet, not yet . . .

"FBI, stop your vehicle!" Lehane's voice blared over a bullhorn two blocks away as he drove the suspect closer to their side street. Their target had a penchant for armor-plated Mercedes and grenade launchers. In theory, they were going to arrest him while he was out running errands, hopefully catching him off guard and relatively unarmed. In theory.

"Stop your vehicle!" Lehane commanded again. Apparently, however, the target didn't feel like playing nice today. Far from hearing the screech of brakes, Alissa and Kimberly caught the sound of a gunning engine. Alissa's foot lowered farther toward the gas.

"Passing the movie theater," New Agent Lehane barked over the radio. "Suspect heading toward the pharmacy. Ready . . . Go."

Alissa slammed the gas and their dark blue Bucar shot forward into the empty street. A sleek black blur appeared immediately to their left. Alissa hit the brakes, swinging the back end of their car around until they were pointed down the street at a forty-five-degree angle. Simultaneously, another Bucar appeared on their right, blocking that lane.

Kimberly now had a full view of a beautiful silver grille gunning down on them with a proud Mercedes logo. She popped open the passenger's door while simultaneously releasing her seat belt, then hefted her rifle to her shoulder and aimed for the front tire.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

The suspect finally hit his brakes. A short screech. The smell of burning rubber. Then the car stopped just fifteen feet away.

"FBI, hands on your head! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!"

Lehane pulled in behind the Mercedes, shouting into the bullhorn with commanding fury. He kicked open his door, fit his handgun into the opening made between the window frame and the door and drew a bead on the stopped car. No hands left for the bullhorn now. He let his voice do the work for him.

"Driver, hands on your head! Driver, reach over with your left hand and lower your windows!"

The black sedan didn't move. No doors opening, no black tinted windows rolling down. Not a good sign. Kimberly adjusted her left hand on the stock of the rifle and shrugged off the rest of her seat belt. She kept her feet in the car, as feet could become targets. She kept her head and shoulders inside the vehicle as well. On a good day, all you wanted the felon to see was the long black barrel of your gun. She didn't know if this was a good day yet.

A fresh drop of sweat teared up on Kimberly's brow and made a slow, wet path down the plane of her cheek.

"Driver, put your hands up," Lehane ordered again. "Driver, using your left hand, lower all four windows."

The driver's side window finally glided down. From this angle, Kimberly could just make out the silhouette of the driver's head as fresh daylight surrounded him in a halo. It appeared that his hands were held in the air as ordered. She eased her grip slightly on her rifle.

"Driver, using your left hand, remove the key from the ignition."

Lehane was making the guy use his left hand, simply to work the law of averages. Most people were right-handed, so they wanted to keep that arm in sight at all times. Next, the driver would be instructed to drop the car key out the open window, then open the car door, all with his left hand. Then he would be ordered to step slowly out of the car, keeping both hands up at all times. He would slowly pivot 360 degrees so they could visually inspect his form for weapons. If he were wearing a jacket, he would be asked to hold it open so they could see beneath his coat. Finally, he would be ordered to walk toward them with his hands on his head, turn, drop to his knees, cross his ankles and sit back on his heels. At that time, they would finally move forward and take their suspect into custody.

Unfortunately, the driver didn't seem to know the theories behind a proper felony vehicle stop. He still didn't lower his hands, but neither did he reach for the key in the ignition.

"Quincy?" Lehane's voice crackled over the radio.

"I can see the driver," Kimberly reported back, gazing through the rifle sight. "I can't make out the passenger side, however. Tinted windshield's too dark."

"Squire?"

Tom Squire had cover duty from Vehicle B, parked twenty feet to the right of Kimberly. "I think . . . I think there might be someone in the back. Again, hard to tell with the windows."

"Driver, using your left hand, remove the key from the ignition." Lehane repeated his command, his voice louder now, but still controlled. The goal was to remain patient. Make the driver come to you, do not relinquish control.

Was it Kimberly's imagination, or was the vehicle now slowly rocking up and down? Someone was moving around . . .

"Driver, this is the FBI! Remove the key from the ignition!"

"Shit, shit, shit," Alissa murmured beside Kimberly. She was sweating hard, streams of moisture pouring down her face. Leaning half out of the car, she had her Glock .40 positioned in the crack between the roof of their vehicle and the open door. Her right arm was visibly shaking, however. For the first time, Kimberly noticed that Alissa hadn't fully removed her seat belt. Half of it was still tangled around her left arm.

"Driver--"

The driver's left hand finally moved. Alissa exhaled forcefully. And in the next instant, everything went to shit.

Kimberly saw it first. "Gun! Backseat, driver side--"

Pop, pop, pop! Red mushroomed across their front windshield. Kimberly ducked and dove out of the vehicle for the shelter of her car door. She came up fast and spread cover fire above the top of her window. More pop, pop, pop.

"Reloading rifle," she yelled into the radio.

"Vince reloading handgun."

"Taking heavy fire from the right, backseat passenger window!"

"Alissa!" Kimberly called out. "Cover us!"

Kimberly turned toward her partner, frantically cramming fresh rounds into the magazine, then realized for the first time that Alissa was no longer to be seen.

"Alissa?"

She stretched across the front seats. New Agent Alissa Sampson was now on the asphalt, a dark red stain spreading across her cheap orange suit.

"Agent down, agent down," Kimberly cried. Another pop, and the asphalt exploded two inches from Alissa's leg.

"Damn," Alissa moaned. "Oh damn, that hurts!"

"Where are those rifles?" Lehane yelled.

Kimberly shot back up, saw the doors of the Mercedes were now swung open for cover and bright vivid colors were literally exploding in all directions. Oh, things had gone definitely FUBAR now.

"Rifles!" Lehane yelled again.

Kimberly hastily scrambled back to her side, and got her rifle between the crack of the car door. She was frantically trying to recall protocol. Apprehension was still the goal. But they were under heavy fire, possible loss of agent life. Fuck it. She started firing at anything that moved near the Mercedes.

Another pop, her car door exploded purple and she reflexively yelped and ducked. Another pop and the pavement mushroomed yellow one inch from her exposed feet. Shit!

Kimberly darted up, opened fire, then dropped back behind the door.

"Quincy, rifle reloading," she yelled into the radio, her hands shaking so badly now with adrenaline that she fumbled the release and had to do it twice. Come on, Kimberly. Breathe!

They needed to regain control of the situation. She couldn't get the damn rounds into the magazine. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Hold it together. A movement caught the corner of her eye. The car. The black sedan, doors still open, was now rolling forward.

She grabbed her radio, dropped it, grabbed it again, and yelled, "Get the wheels, get the wheels."

Squire and Lehane either heard her or got it on their own, because the next round of gunfire splattered the pavement and the sedan came to an awkward halt just one foot from Kimberly's car. She looked up. Caught the startled gaze of the man in the driver's seat. He bolted from the vehicle. She leapt out from behind her car door after him.

And a moment later, pain, brilliant and hot pink, exploded across her lower spine.

New Agent Kimberly Quincy went down. She did not get up again.

"Well, that was an exercise in stupidity," FBI supervisor Mark Watson exclaimed fifteen minutes later. The vehicle-stop drill was over. The five new agents had returned, paint-splattered, overheated, and technically half-dead to the gathering site on Hogan's Alley. They now had the honor of being thoroughly dressed down in front of their thirty-eight fellow classmates. "First mistake, anyone?"

"Alissa didn't get her seat belt off."

"Yeah. She unfastened the clasp, but didn't pull it back. Then when it came time for action . . ."

Alissa hung her head. "I got a little tangled, went to undo it--"

"Popped up and got shot in the shoulder. That's why we practice. Problem number two?"

"Kimberly didn't back up her partner."

Watson's eyes lit up. A former Denver cop before joining the Bureau ten years ago, this was one of his favorite topics. "Yes, Kimberly and her partner. Let's discuss that. Kimberly, why didn't you notice that Alissa hadn't undone her seat belt?"

"I did!" Kimberly protested. "But then the car, and the guns . . . It all happened so fast."

"Yes, it all happened so fast. Epitaph of the dead and untrained. Look--being aware of the suspect is good. Being conscious of your role is good. But you also have to be aware of what's right beside you. Your partner overlooked something. That's her mistake. But you didn't catch it for her, and that was your mistake. Then she got hit, now you're down a man, and that mistake is getting bigger all the time. Plus, what were you doing just leaving her there on the pavement?"

"Lehane was yelling for rifle support--"

"You left a fellow agent exposed! If she wasn't already dead, she certainly was after that! You couldn't drag her back into the car?"

Kimberly opened her mouth. Shut her mouth. Wished bitterly, selfishly, that Alissa could've taken care of herself for a change, then gave up the argument once and for all.

"Third mistake," Watson demanded crisply.

"They never controlled the car," another classmate offered up.

"Exactly. You stopped the suspect's car, but never controlled it." His gaze went to Lehane. "When things first went wrong, what should you have done?"

Lehane visibly squirmed. He fingered the collar of his brown leisure suit, cut two sizes too big and now bearing hot pink and mustard yellow paint on the left shoulder. The paint guns used by the actors in the drills--aka the bad guys--stained everything in sight, hence their Salvation Army wardrobe. The exploding shells also hurt like the dickens, which was why Lehane was holding his left arm protectively against his ribs. For the record, the FBI Academy trainees weren't allowed paint guns but used their real weapons loaded with blanks. The official explanation was that their instructors wanted the trainees to get a feel for their firearms. Likewise, they all wore vests to get used to the weight of body armor. That all sounded well and good, but why not have the actors shoot blanks as well?

The students had their theories. The brightly exploding paint shells made getting hit all the more embarrassing. And the pain wasn't something you forgot about anytime soon. As Steven, the class psychologist, dryly pointed out, the Hogan Alley live-action drills were basically classic shock therapy on a whole new scale.

"Shot out the tires," Lehane said now.

"Yes, at least Kimberly eventually thought of that. Which brings us to, the Deadly Deed of the Day."

Watson's gaze swung to Kimberly. She met his look, knew what it meant, and stuck her chin up.

"She abandoned the cover of her vehicle," the first person said.

"Put down her weapon."

"Went after one suspect before she finished securing the scene."

"Stopped providing cover fire-" "Got killed-"

"Maybe she missed her partner."

Laughter. Kimberly shot the commentator a thanks-for-nothing glare. Whistler, a big burly former Marine-who sounded like he was whistling every time he breathed-smiled back. He'd won Deadly Deed of the Day yesterday when, during a bank robbery of the Bank of Hogan, he went to shoot a robber and hit the teller instead.

"I got a little lost in the moment," Kimberly said curtly.

"You got killed," Watson corrected flatly.

"Merely paralyzed!"

That earned her another droll look. "Secure the vehicle first. Control the situation. Then give pursuit."

"He'd be gone-"

"But you would have the car, which is evidence, you'd have his cohorts to flip on him, and best of all, you'd still be alive. A bird in the hand, Kimberly. A bird in the hand." Watson gave her one last stern look, then opened up his lecture to the rest of the class. "Remember, people, in the heat of the moment, you have to stay in control. That means falling back on your training and the endless drills we're making you do here. Hogan's Alley is about learning good judgment. Taking the high-risk shot in the middle of a bank holdup is not good judgment." Whistler got a look. "And leaving the cover of your vehicle, and your fellow agents, to pursue one suspect on foot, is not good judgment." A fresh glance at Kimberly. Like she needed it.

"Remember your training. Be smart. Stay controlled. That will keep you alive." He glanced at his watch and clapped his hands. "All right, people, five o'clock, that's a wrap. For God's sake, go wash all rlat paint off. And remember, folks-as long as it remains this hot, drink plenty of water."

Chapter Two

Quantico, Virginia
5:22 P.M.
Temperature: 94 degrees

Twenty minutes later, Kimberly stood blessedly alone in her small Washington Hall dorm room. Given this afternoon's debacle, she'd thought she'd have a good cry. She now discovered that as of week nine of the Academy's sixteen-week program, she was officially too tired for tears.

Instead, she stood naked in the middle of the tiny dorm room. She was staring at her reflection in a full-length mirror, not quite believing what she saw.

The sound of running water came from her right; her roommate, Lucy, fresh off the PT course, was showering in the bathroom they shared with two other classmates. Behind her, came the sounds of gunfire and the occasional exploding artillery. The FBI Academy and National Academy classes were done for the day, but Quantico remained a busy place. The Marines conducted basic training just down the road. The DEA ran various exercises. At any given time, on the sprawling 385-acre grounds, someone was probably shooting something.

When Kimberly had first arrived here back in May, first stepped off the Dafre shuttle bus, she'd inhaled the scent of cordite mixed with fresh-cut lawn and thought she'd never smelled anything quite so nice. The Academy seemed beautiful to her. And surprisingly inconspicuous. The sprawling collection of thirteen oversized beige brick buildings looked like any kind of 1970s institution. A community college maybe. Or government offices. The buildings were ordinary.

Inside wasn't much different. A serviceable, blue-gray carpet ran as far as the eye could see. Walls were painted bone-white. Furniture was sparse and functional-low-slung orange chairs, short, easily assembled oak tables and desks. The Academy had officially opened its doors in 1972, and the joke was the decorating hadn't changed much since.

The complex, however, was surprisingly inviting. The Jefferson Dormitory, where visitors checked in, boasted beautiful wood trim as well as a glass-enclosed atrium, perfect for indoor barbecues. Over a dozen long, smoked-glass corridors connected each building and made it seem as if you were walking through the lush, green grounds, instead of remaining indoors. Courtyards popped up everywhere, complete with flowering trees, wrought-iron benches, and flagstone patios. On sunny days, trainees could race woodchucks, rabbits, and squirrels to class as the animals bounded across the rolling lawns. At dusk, the glowing amber eyes of deer, foxes, and raccoons appeared in the fringes of the forest, peering at the buildings with the same intensity the students used to stare back. One day, around week three, as Kimberly was strolling down a glass-enclosed corridor, she turned her head to admire a white flowering dogwood, and a thick black snake suddenly appeared among the branches and dropped to the patio below.

In the good news department, she hadn't screamed. One of her classmates, a former Navy man, however, had. Just startled, he told them all sheepishly. Honestly, just startled.

Of course, they had all screamed a time or two since. The instructors would've been disappointed otherwise.

Kimberly returned her attention to the full-length mirror, and the mess that was her body now reflected there. Her right shoulder was dark purple. Her left thigh yellow and green. Her rib cage was bruised, both shins were black and blue, and the right side of her face-from yesterday shotgun training-looked like someone had gone after her with a meat mallet. She turned around and gazed at the fresh bruise already forming on her lower back. It would go nicely with the giant red mat burn running up the back of her right thigh.

Nine weeks ago, her five-six frame had been one hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle and sinew. As life-long workout junkie, she'd been fit, trim, and ready to breeze through physical training. Armed with a master's degree in criminology, shooting since she was twelve, and hanging out with FBI agents-basically her father-all of her life, she'd strode through the Academy's broad glass doors like she owned the joint. Kimberly Quincy has arrived and she's still pissed off about September 11. So all you bad people out there, drop your weapons and cower.

That had been nine weeks ago. Now, on the other hand...

She'd definitely lost badly needed weight. Her eyes held dark shadows, her cheeks were hollowed out, her limbs looked too thin to bear her own weight. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, the posture of a woman who's been beat one too many times. And her fingernails were torn and ragged where she'd started biting them.

She looked like a washed-out version of her former self. Bruises on the outside to match the bruises on the inside.

She couldn't stand the sight of her own body. She couldn't seem to look away.

Inside the bathroom, the water shut off with a rusty clank. Lucy would be out soon.

Kimberly raised her hand to the mirror. She traced the line of her bruised shoulder, the glass cool and hard against her fingertips.

And, unbidden, she remembered something she hadn't thought of for six years now. Her mother, Elizabeth Quincy. Dark, softly curling brown hair, fine patrician features, her favorite ivory silk blouse. Her mother was smiling at her, looking troubled, looking sad, looking torn.

Kimberly's fingers remained on the mirrored glass. She closed her eyes, however, for there were some things that even after all these years she still could not take.

Another sound from the bathroom; Lucy raking shut the curtain. Kimberly opened her eyes. She moved hastily to the bed and grabbed her clothes. Her hands were trembling. Her shoulder ached.

She pulled on dark blue cunning shorts and a light blue FBI T-shirt.

Six o'clock. Her classmates would be going to dinner. Kimberly went to train.

Kimberly had arrived at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, the third week of May as part of NAG 03-OS-meaning her class was the fifth new agent class to start in the year 2003.

Like most of her classmates, Kimberly had dreamt about becoming an FBI agent for most of her life. To say she was excited to be accepted would be a little bit of an understatement. The Academy accepted only six percent of applicants-a lower acceptance rate than even Harvard's-so Kimberly had been more like giddy, awestruck, thrilled, flabbergasted, nervous, fearful, and amazed all in various turns. For twenty-four hours, she'd kept the news to herself. Her own special secret, her own special day. After all the years of educating and training and trying and wanting

She'd taken her acceptance letter, gone to Central Park, and just sat there, watching a parade of New Yorkers walk by while wearing a silly grin on her face.

Day two, she'd called her father. He'd said, "That's wonderful, Kimberly," in that quiet, controlled voice of his and she'd babbled, for no good reason, "I don't need anything. I'm all set to go. Really, I'm fine."

He'd invited her to dinner with him and his partner, Rainie Conner. Kimberly had declined. Instead, she'd sheared off her long, dirty blond hair and clipped down her fingernails. Then she'd driven two hours to Arlington National Cemetery, where she sat in silence amid the sea white crosses.

Arlington always smelled like a fresh mowed lawn. Green, sunny an bright. Not many people knew that, but Kimberly did.

Arriving at the Academy three weeks later was a lot like arriving summer camp. All new agents were bundled into the Jefferson Dormitory where supervisors rattled off names and crossed off lists, while the new trainees clutched their travel bags and pretended to be much cooler and calmer than they really felt.

Kimberly was summarily handed a bundle of thin white linens and orange coverlet to serve as her bedding. She also received one threadbare white towel and one equally threadbare washcloth. New agent trainees made their own beds, she was informed, and when she wanted fresh sheets, she was to pack up the old bunch and go to linen exchange. She was then handed a student handbook detailing all the various rules governing life at the Academy. The handbook was twenty-four pages long.

Next stop the PX, where, for the bargain-basement price of $325, Kimberly purchased her new agent uniform-tan cargo pants, tan belt, and a navy blue polo shirt bearing the FBI Academy logo on the left breast. Like the rest of her classmates, Kimberly purchased an official FBI Academy lanyard, from which she hung her ID badge.

ID badges were important at the Academy, she learned. For one wearing ID at all times kept students from being summarily arrested by Security and thrown out. For another thing, it entitled her to free food in the cafeteria.

New agents must be in uniform Monday through Friday from eight A.M. to four-thirty P.M., they learned. After four-thirty, however, everyone, magically returned to being mere mortals and thus could wear street, clothes-excluding sandals, shorts, halters, tube tops or tank tops. This was after all, the Academy.

Handguns were not permitted on Academy grounds. Instead, Kimberly checked her Glock .40 into the Weapons Management Facility vault. In return, she received what the new agents fondly referred to as a "Crayola Gun" or "Red Handleî a red plastic gun of approximately the same weight and size as a Glock. New agents were required to wear the Crayolas at all times, along with fake handcuffs. In theory, this helped them grow accustomed to the weight and feel of wearing a handgun.

Kimberly despised her Red Handle. It seemed childish and silly to her. She wanted her Glock back. On the other hand, the various accountants, lawyers, and psychologists in her class, who had zero firearms experience, loved the things. They could knock them off their belts, drop them in the halls, and sit on them without shooting themselves or anyone else in the ass. One day, Gene Yvves had been gesturing so wildly, he whacked his Crayota halfway across the room, where it hit another new agent on the head. Definitely, the first few weeks, it had been a good idea that not everyone in the class was armed.

Kimberly still wanted her Glock back.

Once piled high with linens, uniforms, and toy handguns, the new agent trainees returned to the dorms to meet their roommates. Everyone started out in the Madison and Washington dormitories, two people to a room and two rooms sharing a bath. The rooms were small but functional-two single beds, two small oak desks, one big bookshelf. Each bathroom, painted vivid blue for reasons known only to the janitor, had a small sink and a shower. No tub. By week four, when everyone's bruised and battered bodies were desperate for a long, hot soak, several agents rented hotel rooms in neighboring Stafford purely for the bathtubs. Seriously.

Kimberly's roommate, Lucy Dawbers, was a thirty-six-year-old former trial lawyer who'd had her own two-thousand-dollar-a-month Boston brownstone. She'd taken one look at their spartan quarters that first day and groaned, "Oh my God, what have I done?"

Kimberly had the distinct impression that Lucy would kill for a nice glass of Chardonnay at the end of the day. She also missed her five-year-old-son horribly.

In the good news department-especially for new agents who didn't share particularly well, say perhaps, Kimberly-somewhere around week twelve, new agents became eligible for private rooms in "The Hilton"--the Jefferson Dormitory. These rooms not only were slightly bigger, but entitled you to your very own bathroom. Pure heaven.

Assuming you survived until week twelve.

Three of Kimberly's classmates already hadn't.

In theory, the FBI Academy had abandoned its earlier, boot camp ways for a kindler, gentler program. Recognizing how expensive it was to recruit good agents, the Bureau now treated the FBI Academy as the final training stage for selected agents, rather than as a last opportunity to winnow out the weak.

That was in theory. In reality, testing started week one. Can you run two miles in less than sixteen minutes? Can you do fifty pushups in one minute? Can you do sixty sit-ups? The shuttle run must be completed in twenty-four seconds, the fifty-foot rope must be climbed in forty-five seconds.

The new agent trainees ran, they trained, they suffered through body fat testing and they prayed to fix their individual weaknesses-whether that was the shuttle run or the rope climb or the fifty pushups, in order to pass the three cycles of fitness tests.

Then came the academics program-classes in white-collar crime, profiling, civil rights, foreign counterintelligence, organized crime and drug cases; lessons in interrogation, arrest tactics, driving maneuvers, undercover work, and computers; lecture series on criminology, legal rights, forensics science, ethics, and FBI history. Some of it was interesting, some of it was excruciating, and all of it was tested three times over the course of the sixteen weeks. And no mundane high-school scale here-it took a score of 85 percent or higher to pass. Anything less, you failed. Fail once, you had an opportunity for a make-up test. Fail twice, you were "recycled"--dropped back to the next class.

Recycled. It sounded so innocuous. Like some PC sports program there are no winners or losers here, you're just recycled.

Recycling mattered. New agents feared it, dreaded it, had nightmares about it. It was the ominous word whispered in the halls. It was the secret terror that kept them going up over the towering Marine training wall, even now that it was week nine and everyone was sleeping less and less while being pushed more and more and the drills were harder and the expectations higher and each day, every day, someone was going to get awarded the Deadly Deed of the Day...

Besides the physical training and academics, new agents worked on firearms. Kimberly had thought she'd have the advantage there. She'd been taking lessons with a Glock .40 for the past ten years. She was comfortable with guns and a damn good shot.

Except firearms training didn't involve lust standing and firing at a paper target. They also practiced firing from the sitting position-as if surprised at a desk. Then there were running drills, belly crawling drills, night firing drills, and elaborate rituals where they started out on their bellies, then got up and ran, then dropped down, then ran more, then stood and fired. You fired right-handed. You fired left-handed. You reloaded and reloaded and reloaded.

And you didn't just use a handgun.

Kimberly got her first experience with an M-16 rifle. Then she fired over a thousand rounds from a Remington Model 870 shotgun with a recoil that nearly crushed her right cheek and shattered her shoulder. Then she expelled over a hundred rounds from a Heckler & Koch MRS/10 submachine gun, though that at least had been kind of fun.

Now they had Hogan's Alley, where they practiced elaborate scenarios and only the actors actually knew what was going to happen next. Kimberly's traditional anxiety dreams-leaving the house naked, suddenly being in a classroom taking a pop quiz-had once been in black and white. Since Hogan's Alley, they had taken on vivid, violent color. Hot pink classrooms, mustard yellow streets. Pop quizzes splashed with purple and green paint. Herself, running, running, running down tong endless tunnels of exploding orange, pink, purple, blue, yellow, black, and green.

She awoke some nights biting back weary screams. Other nights, she simply lay there and felt her right shoulder throb. Sometimes, she could tell that Lucy was awake, too. They didn't talk those nights. They just lay in the dark, and gave each other the space to hurt.

Then at six A.M. they both got up and went through it all over again.

Nine weeks down, seven to go. Show no weakness. Give no quarter. Endure.

Kimberly wanted so desperately to make it. She was strong Kimberly, with cool blue eyes just like her father's. She was smart Kimberly with her B.A. in psychology at twenty-one and her master's in criminology at twenty-two. She was driven Kimberly, determined to get on with her life even after what happened to her mother and sister.

She was infamous Kimberly, the youngest member of her class and the one everyone whispered about in the halls. You know who her father is, don't you? What a shame about her family. I heard the killer nearly got her, too. She gunned him down in cold blood...

Kimberly's classmates took lots of notes in their eagerly awaited profiling class. Kimberly took none at all.

She arrived downstairs. Up ahead in the halt, she could see a cluster of green shirts chatting and laughing-National Academy students, done for the day and no doubt heading to the Boardroom for cold beer. Then came the cluster of blue shirts, talking up a storm. Fellow new agent trainees, also done for the day, and now off to grab a quick bite in the cafeteria before hitting the books, or the PT course, or the gym. Maybe they were mentoring each other, swapping a former lawyer's legal expertise for a former Marine's firearms training. New agents were always willing to help one another. If you let them.

Kimberly pushed her way through the outside doors. The heat slammed into her like a blow. She made a beeline for the relative shade f the Academy's wooded PT course and started running.

Pain, Agony, Hurt, the signs read on the trees next to the path. Suck it in. Love it!

"I do, I do," Kimberly gasped.

Her aching body protested. Her chest tightened with pain. She kept on running. When all else failed, keep moving. One foot in front of another. New pain layering on top of the old.

Kimberly knew this lesson well. She had learned it six years ago, when her sister was dead, her mother was murdered and she stood in a Portland, Oregon, hotel room with the barrel of a gun pressed against her forehead like a lover's kiss.

Excerpted from THE KILLING HOUR © Copyright 2003 by Lisa Gardner. Reprinted with permission by Bantam, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.

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