Slipping
Annaleise Marie

Summary: Emmett McCarty is a lead negotiator for the FBI. Cool and calculating on the inside but easy-going and friendly on the outside, he's never lost a hostage. He expected today to be no different. That was before he learned who the hostage was. Will he be able to keep his cool with the love of his life in danger, or will he slip up?

Part One: Any Other Day

AN: I don't know what happened. This story just kind of came barreling into my mind with no warning, screaming "WRITE ME OR THE COMPUTER DIES!" Not being a negotiator like Emmett, I had to agree. So here I am. It'll only be three chapters long, so don't think it'll interfere with "Not Without A Fight". Hope you enjoy it! :D

I own nothing of any great value, including Twilight. Stephenie Meyer owns that.

---

"Waaaaaaaaaaaake up! Wake up, wake up, wake up, get out of bed!"

"Emmett, I swear to God, if you don't change that alarm, I will beat you to a bloody pulp," my wife, Rosalie, groaned as she rolled over, pulling her pillow out from under her and slamming it over her head.

"It's whimsical," I defended, slapping my hand around on the bedside table until I found my phone and then tossed it unceremoniously against the wall. The back flew off, releasing the battery. Rosalie snorted.

"Right, whimsical," she muttered, her voice muffled from under her pillow. "And I will whimsically beat you to death if you don't change it."

"Aww, babe, c'mon. You can't deny it works," I said with a grin, rolling over and pulling the pillow off her face to kiss her cheek before dropping it back down. She groaned grumpily and burrowed deeper into the bed.

"None of the rest of the world shares your desire to get up at four in the morning," she grumbled. I rolled my eyes.

"I don't want to get up at four in the morning, I have to get up at four in the morning," I clarified and she waved her hand dismissively. I was sure that all she wanted now was for me to leave her alone so she could go back to sleep.

I left her to that and went to the bathroom, starting the shower before stripping out of my boxers and stepping in before the water warmed up. As effective as the 'god damned annoying ass fucking alarm' – as Rosalie had dubbed it – was, nothing beat a cold blast of water to wake you up.

The truth was, most days I didn't mind getting up at four. I was pretty versatile, and as long as I got my eight hours in I would wake up at one in the morning if I was asked to. And most days my job was pretty routine. Even in a city like New York, there weren't hostage situations every day. On the days when nothing went down, I punched my time card and waded through files and investigations, interviewing suspects, all of that boring shit.

But every so often we'd get the call that some lunatic had taken a hostage. Armed robberies, political agendas, holiday family feuds, it didn't matter. If someone was in some way being held ransom, I was sent out.

Those days were the hardest. They could range from the normal eight hours to twenty agonizing non-stop hours of stress and mind games. Mind games, that was my job. And I was damned good at it. I've yet to lose a match.

When I came out of the bathroom, Rosalie was sitting up in bed, the TV turned on to Red Eye.

"How do you watch that shit, babe?" I asked, going into the closet to find a suit for the day. I think I'll wear a black one. I like the whole 'men in black' image. It seems fitting of my job, even if I'm not hunting down aliens.

"It's interesting," she said.

"It's not even real news," I said, pulling my slacks on before heading back into the bedroom. She glared at me.

"Of course it is. They just put a different spin on it," she said.

"Jon and Kate," I said, glancing at the television. "Very newsworthy."

"Bite me," she said and I grinned, wiggling my eyebrows at her. "They were just discussing those police murders in Washington. I hate that Charlie's stuck there."

"I think he's pretty safe in Forks, babe," I said, laughing. Charlie was my brother's father-in-law.

"Still, you know Bella. She's freaking out."

"Of course she is," I said. Rosalie raised an eyebrow at me. "Look, you know I love Bella, but she loves stressing herself out about things that don't matter."

"I'd say it matters."

"Maybe if it was actually happening in Forks, or hell, even Port Angeles. It's happening in Tacoma," I said. She shrugged and then stood up and came over to me as I struggled with my tie, batting my hands away before tying it herself. I could tie it myself, of course, but I always pretend that I can't because I like that short moment of intimacy when she ties it for me. Call me a sap.

She used the tie to pull me down to her level when she was done, kissing me shortly before releasing it.

"So what are you doing today?" I asked as I went to retrieve my phone and put it back together. "It's your day off, right?"

"Please," she scoffed. "You know as well as I do that there's no such thing as a real day off. I'm going to drop Emma off with your parents and then I have errands to run. If I'm lucky I'll be home in time to get dinner on the table before my demanding husband comes home."

"Oh god, you're not going to cook are you?"

"Hey, I am a great cook, you ass!" she defended, swatting my arm playfully. I shot her a skeptical glance as I snapped the back casing of the phone back in place. "Okay, I'm not a great cook," she conceded. "But I'm getting better since your mom started helping me."

"Because she's afraid that there will be another Thanksgiving food poisoning incident," I muttered teasingly, dodging another swat and grabbing my suit jacket before heading to the bedroom door. "Hey, it's not your fault. Who knew that preparing ham and then deviled eggs without washing your hands between them would cause cross-contamination?" I said as she followed me to the door.

"Be safe, okay?" Rosalie asked, stretching up to kiss me goodbye. I nodded. It was part of our normal morning routine, and I secretly wondered if it wasn't the reason that every one of my negotiations had gone well. "I love you."

"I love you, too," I said before stepping out, tiptoeing past Emma's room so as not to wake her – if Rosalie had to be awake this early, she didn't need to deal with a hyperactive six-year-old on top of that.

I arrived at the office an hour later, taking my seat at my desk in the office I shared with Peter. I didn't care much for him, but he was indirectly responsible for me meeting Rosalie, being best friends with Jasper, her brother, so I always made it a point to be civil towards him out of some sort of gratitude. Not that I really owed him anything, but it just seemed right.

"Got the reports on those Washington murders," he said as I booted up my computer. I looked over at him. He was reclined in his desk chair, his arms folded over his chest as he stared at the ceiling.

"So why aren't you working on them?" I asked.

"Because what the fuck do they think we're going to find about something that's going on along with fucking west coast?" he asked and I sighed. I regularly wondered if Peter really understood his job description.

"Because do you really think the perpetrators woke up one day and decided to gun down four cops? They probably have prior records. You could make yourself useful and try to dig up something that matches their MO," I said, pulling up the file on my computer.

"That will take years," he groaned. "We have files on every fucking offender in the country."

"You know, if you don't like it, maybe you shouldn't be working for the feds," I said.

"All I'm saying is, it's tedious," he sighed, sitting up and turning his attention to his computer. "Something more interesting needs to happen."

"You should thank your lucky stars that it's boring around here. Interesting is usually bad news in this business."

---

The call came in at nine. There had been an armed robbery at the First National Bank in Rochester. The local police had been dispatched and had been handling it until they found out that the robber had taken a hostage.

"Well, Peter, it looks like you got your wish," I said, leaving the office to suit up and head down to Rochester.

---

The outside of the bank was a fucking madhouse when we got there. Camera crews, reporters, and the general public were milling about. Christ. It would be nice to just once be able to do my job without having to clear out a fucking circus first.

"ATTENTION!" a female voice blared and I turned around to see Jane standing on the running board of one of the unmarked SUVs, a megaphone clasped in her hand. Jane was fucking scary, and I had never been more glad to be on this side of the law than when I first met her. She's all of four-foot-ten, with the body of a twelve year old, the face of a child, and the attitude of a cornered mother lion. She laid me flat on my back my first day of hand-to-hand training, and smiled through the whole thing.

"ATTENTION! CLEAR OUT OF THE AREA! ANYONE REMAINING IN THE AREA WILL BE DETAINED FOR INTERFERING IN A FEDERAL INVESTIGATION!" she issued the standard warning.

Her husband Alec, along with Felix and Demitri, our "heavies", moved through the crowd, directing people away from the site. Christ, this wasn't our job. Why hadn't the local police already done this?

I went to the surveillance van to find Peter zooming between computers, entering codes and issuing orders to the tech team. He was a lazy-ass fucker, but it always amazed me how good he was with computers.

"We've got a feed from the security cameras inside, but we can't see the hostage. This guy's no idiot. The cameras are movable, but it looks like he has them sitting directly under one," he said, moving aside to let me see the monitors.

"Are we making contact with him?" I asked.

"Not until Jane and the rest secure the area, unless he makes a move. Public safety and all that, right?" he smirked.

"One good civilian death would teach them all to clear out when we tell them to," Aro said from his seat as he set up the recording equipment on our phone line.

"Aro," I said warningly. He shrugged.

"Sometimes you have to set an example," he said.

"And sometimes you have to remember that you're here to protect the civilians," I retorted.

"Cool down, man, I'm just here to run audio," he said and I thanked whatever god was out there that that was all he did. God knows he didn't have the people skills to actually make contact with anyone.

"Yo, McCarty," Jane's sharp voice broke in and I turned around to see her standing outside of the van. "The area's secured. We've got Marcus and his group patrolling the parameter. The boys and I are going on standby at the front entrance, and Caius is taking his team around to the emergency exits. Chelsea's got her crew on the rooftops and Cornin and Heidi are in the air."

"Thanks, Jane," I muttered and she nodded before hurrying off to her post. "Peter, get me a visual on this guy. Aro, get him on the line. Everyone, shut up." Chances are that the second I got him on the phone, he'd know that I was one of the guys out here, but there was no need to confirm just how many people could hear him. Keep it simple, intimate – never corner the perpetrator.

Aro handed me the phone. We didn't use the intercom system because it created an echo that tipped the perp off to the fact that people were listening, if they weren't already aware. Instead, I talked on one line while the call was monitored through headphones by the other guys.

As the phone rang, Peter manipulated the cameras to focus on the main desk. For a moment I thought that the guy might not answer, but in the next second he swaggered into view, leaning against the counter before picking the phone up.

"First National Bank," he said calmly. He wasn't trying to pass it off – he was mocking us.

"Good morning," I greeted him easily. "Who am I speaking to?"

"Well, I don't see how that's really important, but I guess you can call me James," he answered, his head back, appearing very interested in the ceiling.

"So what're you up to?" I asked. I expected him to laugh – that nervous, high-pitched, almost angry laughter that most of them gave me. He didn't. At first I wondered if he had even heard me.

"Well," he said contemplatively after a moment. His voice was calm, lacking in the desperation I was used to encountering. "I'm wondering just which tactic you're going to employ."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, are you going to offer me what I want? Or are you going to try to be my new best friend so that I'll have a change of heart? Or maybe you'll just demand that I let her go," he mused. I forced an easy laugh.

"You've been watching too many crime shows," I answered. "I'm just hoping we can come to an agreement."

"Oh yeah?" he asked, sounding amused, but falsely so, as though he had rehearsed how to do it, but didn't know the emotion first-hand. "Well, that changes things."

"Really?" I asked skeptically. This was too easy. Way, way, too easy.

"No, not really," he said, his eyes coming down to focus on the area directly under the camera closest to the back east corner of the bank. "Because see, I'm not out for anything."

"Then why do it?" I asked. I didn't really care about his answer. The important thing was that he was talking. The first rule is to keep them talking as long as you can. The longer you talk to them, the longer you put off their actions, and the closer they feel to you. Eventually they either rethink what they're doing or actually start listening to you, and then you have control again.

"Haven't you ever just wanted to shock the world?" he asked. "Just to see what would happen? Better yet, haven't you ever wanted to hold someone else's life in your hands? To have them beg for it?"

"Can't say that I have," I said. I was listening carefully to what he was saying now. This sounded like... but the MO didn't match. He had released everyone but one person... The type of people that I was now comparing him to tended to do things on a much larger scale.

"No? That surprises me," he said and on the monitor I saw him shrug, as though brushing it off. "But then, I don't really know you, do I? Tell me something about yourself."

"My name's Detective Emmett McCarty," I said. "My favourite colour is blue and I kickbox as a hobby." I paused. "But we both know you're not really that interested in me."

"You're probably right about that," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Are you armed, James?" I asked.

"That's a pretty stupid question, Detective," he said, that same deadened amusement dripping from his voice. "You think I could've done this if I weren't armed?"

"Probably not," I admitted. "How do you feel?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. I shrugged, even though he couldn't see me. Going through the physical motions helped me keep up the verbal part.

"Well, if it were me, I'd be pretty freaked out. I mean, you've dug yourself in pretty deep, taking a hostage and all," I said. He smirked.

"Is that how you want me to feel?" he asked.

"How I want you to feel isn't important."

"And this isn't Dr. Phil."

"You know what's strange? You'll answer any question except this one. What's so wrong with discussing it? Think you'll look weak for the television crews? They're gone. No shame," I said, grinning.

"Emotions aren't important to me. So let's talk about something else. Otherwise, I might get bored and gut this pretty little woman like a fish." His voice was dead. He truly felt no reservations about killing this woman. It meant nothing more to him than – like he said – filleting a fish.

That was it. I turned to Laurent and threw him the signal that changed everything. We were dealing with a psychopath. At the turn of the century, following the events of the Columbine Massacre, our methods of dealing with suspected psychopaths have changed. There is no room for negotiations, because negotiations are useless. They want nothing, and therefore we have no leverage. They're in it for the thrill – unable to feel emotion of their own, they seek anything that will spark even the slightest bit. James was getting pleasure from this, and he would get more from killing his hostage.

Instead of negotiating, it was now a game of opportunity. It was up to Jane, Marcus, Caius, and Chelsea, along with the rest of their teams, to get to him before he could get to her.

"Let's talk about her then." I fought to keep my voice steady. I had never had to deal with a psychopath before. "Who do you have there, James?" I asked conversationally and on the monitor I could see the sick grin spreading across his face as Peter brought the camera closer on him.

"Well it's funny you should ask that, Detective," he said slowly, his eyes flitting to the camera. Fucker knew we were watching and was enjoying every minute of it. "Because it's quite the coincidence, you see. Her name's Rosalie McCarty. Isn't that funny, Detective? She has the same last name as you."

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AN: Reviews are love! If you loved this, pass it back to me with a review! And keep a lookout for part two! :D

For more information on psychopathy, and the effect of the Columbine Massacre on law enforcement's methods of dealing with suspected psychopaths, I recommend "Columbine" by Dave Cullen.