Culvin stood over his suspect, one hand resting on the grip of his Glock, the other pressed to his shoulder radio.
He felt extraordinary. He felt like the version of himself he had been waiting to become since he first put on the uniform.
He had gone into an active federal operation and done what the federal agents, with their surveillance vans and their encrypted channels and their months of preparation, had apparently failed to do. He had grabbed someone.
"This is Culvin," he said into the radio. "I've got a suspect secured in Building 7, south corridor. Armed, wearing a wire. Sending him out ahead of the feds. Tell them I've already got eyes on the interior."
Sergeant Doss's voice came back immediately, and even through the radio compression, Culvin could hear that the man's composure was gone.
"Culvin, listen to me very carefully. Get out of that building right now. You have crossed a federal perimeter. You have to come out right now."
"I've got the guy, Ansel."
"You don't know who you've got, Culvin!"
Culvin turned the volume down.
On the concrete floor, Harmon closed his eyes and began counting.
He had been doing this kind of mental arithmetic his entire career. Calculating the geometry of dangerous situations, estimating timelines, assessing exit options.
He was not afraid. He was, in a way that would have been very difficult to explain to anyone who had never done this work, almost entirely focused. The way a surgeon is focused during a complication, rather than panicked by it.
He knew Baines had heard the wire drop. He knew the breach timeline had accelerated. He knew the outcome of this situation was already decided.
The only variable was how badly Culvin damaged himself in the remaining minutes before he found out what he'd done.
He didn't have to count very far.
The shaped charge on the north loading door detonated with a sound that wasn't quite an explosion and wasn't quite a percussion instrument, but was both of those things simultaneously. A concussive thud that traveled through the concrete floor and up through Culvin's boots.
The ceiling of the corridor shed a fine rain of rust and insulation. One of the fluorescent panels above them flickered and went out.
Culvin spun toward the sound, his weapon coming up.
"Lower your gun," Harmon said from the floor, his voice carrying the same level tone it had held since the beginning of this encounter. "Lower it right now and put your hands on your head. Do not aim at the agents who are about to come through that corridor."
"Shut up," Culvin snapped, his voice suddenly less certain than it had been.
The tactical team came in fast and quiet, and from two directions at once.