Elk Grove, Virginia

Maggie’s hand stayed tucked inside her jacket, fingertips on the butt of her Smith & Wesson as the door opened. It had to be a mistake or a brilliant setup. The little girl who answered the door couldn’t be much older than four, maybe five years old.

“Is your mom here?” Cunningham asked and Maggie didn’t hear a trace of his surprise. Instead, his voice was gentle and soothing, like a man who had once been a father to a child this age.

Maggie’s eyes searched the room beyond the doorway. A noisy TV was the main attraction, with pillows, dirty plates and discarded toys surrounding it. The place was a mess, but from neglect, not a hostage takeover.

The little girl looked neglected, too. Peanut butter and jelly with crumbs stuck to the corners of her mouth. Her long hair was a tangle that she pushed out of her eyes to get a better look at them. She wore pink pajamas with stains where cartoon characters’ faces used to be.

“Are you sellin’ something?” Maggie could tell it was a question she was used to asking, well rehearsed and even with a dismissive frown.

“No, sweetie, we’re not selling anything,” Cunningham told her. “We just need to talk to your mom.”

The little girl took a glance over her shoulder, a telling sign that the mother was, indeed, here.

“What’s your name?” Cunningham asked while Maggie edged closer inside.

She could see two doors, one door was open, showing a bathroom. The door to the right was closed. From what she remembered on the computer monitor, the second heat source was on the other side.

“My name’s Mary Louise, but I don’t think I’m ’posed to talk to you.”

The little girl was distracted and watching Maggie. She wasn’t as smooth with children as Cunningham and somehow kids always sensed it. Just like dogs. Dogs always seemed to be able to pick out the one person who was uncomfortable being around them, then gravitated to that person as if trying to win her over. Dogs, Maggie could handle. Children, she didn’t have a clue about.

She heard the whisper of one of the FBI techs in the microphone bud in her right ear, “Nine minutes,” and she glanced back at Cunningham. He touched his ear to tell her he had heard, too. They were running out of time. Maggie’s gut instinct told her they should snatch up the little girl and just leave.

“Is your mom asleep, Mary Louise?” Cunningham pointed at the closed door.

Mary Louise’s eyes followed his hand as Maggie slipped behind her and into the room.

“She hasn’t been feeling good,” the little girl confessed. “And my tummy hurts.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Cunningham patted her on the head. The distraction worked. Now Mary Louise didn’t even glance back at Maggie, who tiptoed across the room, her eyes taking in everything from the People magazines scattered on the coffee table to the M&Ms spilled on the carpet to the plastic crucifix hanging on the wall. She looked for wires. She listened over the TV cartoons for any buzzing or clicking. She even sniffed the air for sulfur.

“Maybe I can help you and your mom,” Cunningham told the girl who stared up at him and nodded.

Maggie could see the girl was on the verge of tears, biting her lower lip to keep from crying. It was a gesture she recognized from her own childhood and she hated that adults were evidently still using that stupid ruse that “big girls don’t cry.”

But it was clear Cunningham had won the girl over. She reached up and took his hand. “I think she’s really sick,” Mary Louise said under a sniffle with a quick swipe at her nose. Then she started leading Cunningham to the closed door.

That’s when Maggie heard another whisper in her ear, “Four minutes left.”