"Lieutenant Rebello over there."
Lieutenant Rebello scarcely looked at Remo's ID card. "We've got him barricaded in the basement fallout shelter. Everytime we send someone in-"
"Let me guess," Remo interrupted. "They don't come out."
A first-floor window broke and out sailed a riot-control helmet. It bounced upon impact, showing clearly that it still encapsulated its late owner's head.
A SWAT team in flak jackets raced up and gathered up the head-helmet and all-into a fire retardant blanket and rushed it to a waiting ambulance.
"They come back like that," the lieutenant said hoarsely.
"Got a bullhorn?"
A bullhorn was surrendered. Remo brought it up to his mouth, took a deep breath, and called, "You in there. This is FBI Special Agent Reynolds. Remo Reynolds."
"Liar!" a squeaky voice called out.
"You know who I am. The jig's up, Wo. I want you to surrender peacefully-or else."
"Or else what?"
"Or else, I'm coming in there after you."
"Do your worst, O FBI lackey."
A collective gasp went up. Assault rifles and sidearms were steadied over the hoods of the police-car cordon. Every trigger finger was white at the knuckles. The air filled with the simultaneous whir of video equipment.
Remo turned to the lieutenant and said, "Watch my back."
"You can't go in there. You saw what happened. And they were wearing full protective gear."
"I've done this before. And I speak fluent Korean."
And as the trigger-happy police watched, the FBI agent entered the marble ANC lobby and disappeared from sight.
"That's one brave agent," a cop remarked.
"That's one brave dead agent," Lieutenant Rebello said.
Ten minutes later, the well-dressed FBI agent emerged again, face grim.
"He's willing to surrender," Remo said.
"He is?"
"There's one condition."
"What's that?"
"Absolutely, positively no cameras."
The word went out. The cameramen were pushed back. A few news people cried out their first amendment rights and ended up in the backs of police cars, sitting on their handcuffed hands.
When that was done, Agent Remo Reynolds went back in.
Minutes ticked by. Huddling behind barricades, SWAT weapons pointed unwaveringly at the studio entrance.
Then, a figure emerged-short, wispy, swathed in a blue-and-gold native costume, hands raised in abject surrender.
"I am surrendering because I have met my match," he announced in a loud voice.
"Amazing," Lieutenant Rebello croaked.
The tiny Asian stepped out onto the sidewalk and said in a loud voice. "Fear not. I will harm no one because I have seen the error of my ways."
"Okay, take him," Rebello called. The police moved in, weapons raised and cocked. They looked eager to shoot at the slightest provocation.
"Don't," Remo said, stepping between the encircling gun muzzles and the Master of Sinanju. "I got him calmed down now. You'll only set him off again."
"He's surrendered, right?"
"He's agreed to surrender to the FBI," Remo corrected.
"I have watched their television program and it has struck fear my fearless heart," cried the old Korean in a high voice.
"Look," Remo said anxiously. "I gotta get him to FBI headquarters fast. I need to borrow a car."
Rebello waved his men back and shouted, "Get an unmarked unit over here!"
A nondescript sedan was brought up. Keys were surrendered.
The old Asian went meekly into the back. The door was clapped shut and FBI Agent Reynolds took the wheel, saying, "Thanks. You'll get a full report."
And as the way was cleared, the unmarked car disappeared from sight.
Lieutenant Rebello took a deep breath. "All right, let's sweep the building."
The FBI van arrived within fifteen minutes. The doors popped and slid open, and out came a team of agents in blue windbreakers with the letters FBI stenciled on the back.
"Who are you?" Rebello demanded of the agent who appeared in charge.
"Hostage negotiation team."
"You're a little late. Agent Reynolds took care of it. Talked the guy out clean."
"Reynolds?"