“Fork over all the cash in the drawer, Pops,” one of them shouted at the African American man behind the register, tossing a small duffel bag on the counter.

Elena’s heart was racing. She slowly reached for Lars, who just as slowly took her hand and squeezed it tightly.

“Let’s go, let’s go; we don’t got all night!” the leader demanded, waving a pistol in the face of the terrified clerk.

The man’s hands were trembling. He was trying to open the register, but it was taking too long.

“Look at me, Pops. Look at me!”

The gray-haired gentleman looked up. Elena could see the fear in his eyes and knew she had the same look in her own.

“Now, I’m gonna count to three, and when I get to three, that register better be open, or I’m gonna shoot you in your brain. You got that?”

The man nodded and immediately went back to work. The register finally popped open, and he began stuffing the duffel bag with cash.

“Move, move; come on, let’s go,” barked the leader, who then glanced back at his partner to make sure everything behind him was okay.

Elena glanced at him too. The kid was standing a few feet to her left, near the door. He was aiming his pistol at the line of customers, making sure none of them did anything stupid. At the same time he was constantly looking outside at a rusty green Plymouth Duster idling out front. Elena didn’t have a good view of the driver, but she could tell he, too, was nervous by the way he kept revving the engine every few moments, like he was trying to signal his partners that they’d already been in there way too long.

She glanced at the door. It was less than ten feet away from them, and it was unlocked. Yes, it was being guarded by the kid to her left. But would he really shoot them if they suddenly bolted out of the store to safety? These punks were thieves, but were they cold-blooded murderers? Elena doubted it.

Elena knew exactly what Marcus would be doing if he were there. He’d have been armed, and she had no doubt he would have drawn down on these two and given them a single and clear ultimatum: drop their weapons or die. She also knew what he’d tell her: do whatever these hoodlums told them, stand still, stay calm, and don’t try to be a hero. He was right, of course. It would be foolish to bolt. This would all be over in a moment.

What neither Elena nor the hoodlums had accounted for was the off-duty D.C. cop in the restroom. Hearing all the commotion, he slowly came out of the men’s room and down the aisle behind them with his service weapon drawn.

“Police —hands up and no one dies!” he shouted.

The kid to Elena’s left turned quickly to see who was behind him. The moment his gun came around, the policeman fired three shots in a row. One went wide and blew out the glass door. Another struck the boy in the chest. The third hit him in the throat. The boy flew backward through the shattered glass and landed on the pavement.

The store erupted in gunfire as the leader wheeled around and began firing everything he had and the cop returned fire. When it was all over and the smoke cleared, the driver and the second gunman were gone, and four people lay dead —the kid in the hoodie, sprawled out on the pavement, the off-duty policeman, Lars, and Elena.

Air Force One landed early.

With the jet stream working for them, the pilots had made up the forty-seven minutes and more. Marcus couldn’t believe his good fortune. But as the plane taxied to a stop, the special agent in charge came over to his seat and asked him if they could talk in private.

“Is there a problem, sir?” Marcus asked, anxious to get moving.

“I’m afraid there is,” the SAIC said as the rest of the detail grabbed their carry-on bags and headed off the plane.

At first Marcus thought he was being relieved of duty. He’d never seen his supervisor look so somber or hesitate to say whatever was on his mind.

“Look, Marcus, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it.”

Marcus steeled himself for whatever was coming.

“There’s been an incident.”

“What do you mean?”

“A shooting, at a 7-Eleven in Southeast.”

“And?”

“Elena was there, as was Lars.”

Marcus froze. “But they’re okay, right? Tell me they’re all right.”

The SAIC shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid they’re not.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“There was an off-duty cop in the store at the time. He drew his weapon. There was a gun battle. Elena and Lars were caught in the cross fire.”

Marcus heard the words, but he didn’t believe them. There was no way his wife and son were at a 7-Eleven in Southeast, he explained. They were meeting him at the Kennedy Center. He needed to get there himself. He couldn’t be late.

“Marcus, they’re dead,” the SAIC said. “Both of them. I’m so sorry.”

The SAIC drove.

They raced from Andrews into the city in a government sedan, lights flashing, siren blaring. Marcus couldn’t hear it. All his training was failing him. He couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t count, couldn’t focus, much less speak. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a mistake. It had to be.

Finally the two men pulled up to the crime scene. A dozen police cars and several ambulances clogged the streets. A half-dozen TV news crews were covering the story live, their satellite trucks taking up nearly a city block. A D.C. detective met them and walked them over a sea of shattered glass to the blown-out front door of the convenience store. The body of the young gunman had already been removed, but his outline remained in the coagulating pool of blood.

“You sure you want to do this?” the detective asked before opening the door.

Marcus said nothing. The detective looked to the SAIC and back at Marcus, then led the two men inside.

What Marcus saw was worse than anything he had let himself imagine. Three bodies, each covered in blood-drenched sheets, lay where they had fallen. Bullet casings were everywhere. An empty handbasket, resting on its side, immediately caught his eye. Strewn about the filthy tile smudged with blood and dirt were unopened packages of DayQuil and Extra Strength Tylenol, a bag of Ricola, a three-pack of tissues, a Snickers —Lars’s favorite —and a Dasani water bottle.

Crime scene investigators were still taking photographs, still taking measurements and detailed notes. All the initial interviews with witnesses had already been conducted by the detectives, and the wounded had been taken to the hospital to be treated for shock and various minor injuries. No one was left who had actually been present when the shooting began, no one Marcus could ask for details.

It didn’t matter. Marcus hadn’t come to solve a crime or even observe the aftermath of one. He had come for one simple, if unimaginable, purpose —to identify the bodies of the two people most precious to him in the world. So that’s what he did.

Just a few inches away a woman’s hand, cold and stiff, poked out from beneath a sheet. Marcus instantly recognized the rings. They were Elena’s. He forced himself to kneel beside her body. His hands were shaking. Taking a deep breath, he slowly pulled back the sheet. There was Elena’s face. Her eyes were closed. She looked like she was sleeping. She looked peaceful, so beautiful in her pearl earrings and necklace. Marcus saw blood. Then he pulled the sheet back farther and saw the damage. She’d been hit once in the chest and again in the stomach. His bottom lip quivered. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Marcus felt the SAIC’s hand on his back, steadying him. Neither man said anything. What was there to say?

Marcus leaned down and kissed Elena on her forehead, then pulled the sheet up over her face and turned to the body next to her. Again, he slowly pulled back the sheet. Lars was lying facedown. Marcus could see the holes in the back of his tux. Blood was everywhere.

Slowly, carefully, he turned the boy over. His eyes were still open, and they looked so scared —haunted and alone. At this, Marcus lost it. He immediately shut Lars’s eyes and cradled him in his arms and wept and wept.