The Survivors Club (44 page)

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 and got shot in the shoulder. That’s why we practice. Problem number two?”

“Kimberly didn’t back up her partner.”

Mark’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 just taken care of herself for a change, then gave up the argument once and for all.

“Third mistake,” Mark said 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 the feel for their own 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 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 Freudian 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.”

Mark’s gaze swung to Kimberly. She met his look, knew what it meant and got 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.”

Small 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 Bank of Hogan, he went to shoot a robber and hit the teller instead.

“I got a little lost in the moment,” she said curtly.

“You got killed,” Mark corrected her 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.” Mark 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 that paint off. And remember, folks, as long as it remains this hot: drink plenty of water.”

THE SURVIVORS CLUB
A Bantam Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published June 2002
Bantam international mass market edition published January 2003
Bantam domestic mass market edition / May 2003

Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

All rights reserved
Copyright © 2002 by Lisa Gardner

Excerpt from Love You More copyright © 2010 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002018502
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
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Published simultaneously in Canada

eISBN: 978-0-553-89750-0

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