Four snipers, two kneeling behind the bushes flanking the drive where it intersected the sidewalk and two, each with a helper, crouched hugging the wall on either side of the garage door. All the other officers at the Strickland apprehension site took cover behind the large SWAT van, falling into one of two groups. Some paced to and fro beside the van; others kneeled or stood staring at the scene from around its front fender in anticipation and suspense.

A few seconds later, the garage door began to open. It was a single-panel door, where the entire door pivoted as an unbending wooden slab, the bottom edge swinging out as it rose. Not a leaf was rustling nor a blade of grass moving, and it seemed that no one on our team was breathing. The tension was palpable and magnified what little sound there was—I could hear the little "sproing" made by the door's springs expanding and collapsing.

Barely audible, I heard a "pfffft", quickly followed by another, to my right as a SWAT sniper behind the corner of the van took out the Ring drone with silenced .22 caliber rounds.

And now, the first puff of condensation from the car's exhaust escaped into the night air from under the slowly rising garage door.

At the same time, black-clad figures in the shadows on either side of the door silently placed the snipers' elevated shooting platforms so they bracketed the driveway, then disappeared into the night like ninja warriors. A sniper mounted each platform without a sound and rested his rifle's handguard on the platform's built-in support.

The Lexus inched backward, at first haltingly, out of the garage, brake lights flashing quickly on, off, and back on again, and then began rolling more confidently. There was a slight squeaking of tire rubber on the coated garage floor as the car rolled out and the Lexus' engine purred softly. No other sounds to be heard in the still of the night. I was momentarily transfixed by the odd serenity of it all against the pounding of my own heart.

Then suddenly, the first staccato "pap-pap-pap-pap" and starbursts of muzzle flash startled me, joined milliseconds later by a second burst from the AR-15 on the passenger side of the car, with the explosion of shattering glass, a screech of torn sheet metal, and the bang-bang-bang of something striking hardened steel. No more than two seconds later, another round of gunshots. These were slower, more deliberate, and closer to us, from behind bushes where the sidewalk crossed the drive, deflating each of the Lexus' tires in turn as we hugged the side of the SWAT van peering around its nose.

With the windows now gone, Christina's screams reverberated through the night air, punctuated with Strickland's yells of "Drive! Go! Go!" Wisps of blue-gray smoke curled from the snipers' positions, and a few seconds later I caught the slightly acrid smell of freshly-burned gunpowder wafting through the air.

The Lexus continued backing out of the driveway, more quickly now, the flattened tires flopping, waddling, and crunching through the tiny sharp squares of glass as the car made its way past the SWAT gauntlet. One or more rounds had gone through the floorboard and pierced the tailpipe ahead of the muffler, adding a harsh sputter and rattle to the sounds of the engine. The vehicle then backed onto the street with a quarter-circle turn, bouncing a little as it came to a stop and the driver shifted gears. It then pulled forward, heading west onto the street with a chirp and a quick squeal of what was left of the front tires. The squeaking and grinding sounds grew louder as the bare metal of the wheels made more frequent contact with the pavement.

The snipers had run from their platforms and reported in to Sanders, standing beside us. "Lieutenant, couldn't get a clear line-of-sight," the sniper who'd been on the passenger side of the vehicle reported, "he's got metal plating on the driver's side of the rear footwells and wooden panels covering him on the other side. I think I got a couple of good hits but can't confirm any damage. I heard a male voice indicating the target is still alive and coherent."

"Dammit!" Sanders exclaimed. "I don't mean you," he said apologetically to the young sniper. "The execution looked flawless from here. Just wish we'd gotten the SOB. The good news is they can't get far on those tires."

Almost on cue, the front wheels of the Lexus began spitting chunks of rubber off to the sides and the intermittent squalling of the wheels as they spun inside the tire sidewall beads became more insistent. But after about four hundred yards of erratic travel meandering over the centerline and back, the Lexus' brake lights brightened, the right turn signal flashed, and the Lexus pulled over to the curb. The turn signal told us the young woman was still alive and driving, which was a positive sign. I couldn't imagine that anyone else under the age of 80 would have used their turn signal in those circumstances. The possibilities raced through my mind. Was Strickland going to take over the driving now? Wishful thinking maybe, but would he release the hostage? Or was he going to try to negotiate a replacement vehicle?

SWAT officers at a half crouch approached the rear of the vehicle from behind shields, bobbing up for a quick glance through the missing windows and then back down to safety, trying to determine Strickland's position inside. After an excruciatingly-long three minutes, the rear passenger door swung open, and Strickland crawled out on his belly, dragging himself forward with his elbows and falling onto the grassy easement face-first. Blood flowed from his right shoulder and left forearm. His right leg was spurting blood. He'd wrapped his leather belt around it but apparently lacked the strength to pull it tight enough to stop the bleeding.

We split into two teams—Louis, Eve, Paul, and I went to the driver's side of the Lexus, Mondo and the rest of the team to the passenger side. Two SWAT officers drew down on Strickland. One commanded, "Put your hands behind your back. Hands behind your back, now!" As Strickland complied, the same officer asked, "Do you have any weapons on your person or any other objects that could injure someone?"

Strickland responded with a muffled grunt, "No."

The officers cuffed him, patted him down, and turned him over so he was face-up. Mondo could see Strickland's face was bloodied and creased with agony, pierced every few seconds with grimaces of what had to be excruciating pain.

"Officer, change of plans," Mondo said. "We're going to forego the material witness warrant. We just received an arrest warrant for the Marshall homicide. We'll be taking this man into custody on the second warrant."

A SWAT officer applied a tourniquet from their First Aid kit to Strickland's leg and pressure bandages to his forearm and shoulder as Mondo stood behind Strickland's head and mirandized him: "Robert William Strickland, you are being placed under arrest for the first-degree murder of James Marshall III. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?"

Strickland raised his eyes to Mondo and simply said, "Yes," through gritted teeth. Another SWAT officer accompanied me as I crossed in front of the disabled Lexus, and I watched as shock dulled Strickland's suffering. First the possibility that he would survive this, and then the realities of his detention, and finally, resignation to his fate passed across Strickland's face in waves, settling on a whitish shade of defeat.

As Strickland was being secured, Paul and Marci hustled over to the driver's side to re-join Louis and Eve. They were bent over slightly with firearms at the ready as they approached. Crouching further to stay below the window frame, Marci reached out and pulled the door handle. The door opened easily, revealing their hostage, frozen in fear. Eyes wide with terror, mouth open and lower lip quivering, Christina's face was ghostly pale. Tremors wracked her body as she held her shaking hands up to the roof of the car, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. almost unrecognizable as the composed and demure woman I'd met at the children's benefit gala.

Marci leaned in across Christina's lap and punched the start button to turn off the vehicle. "Are you hurt anywhere?" she asked, and Christina frantically shook her head no.

Reaching across Christina's abdomen, Marci released the young woman's seatbelt. Christina threw both her hands around Marci's neck as though she was drowning and let out a loud sob. As Marci lifted her out of the car, she transferred Christina to Paul's waiting arms. She was light enough that Paul could easily carry her, still crying, to the opposite sidewalk from where Strickland was being held. One of the SWAT team members had thoughtfully brought a folding lawn chair from Strickland's open garage, and Paul sat her carefully in it.

Eve quietly began comforting her. "Hi, Christina, my name is Eve. I am so sorry for what you've been through, but we're here to help. An ambulance is on its way. Can you tell me if there is any place you are hurt?"

"Thank you," Christina whispered, the look on her face beseeching. Tears trickled down her cheeks and her hands were still shaking slightly, but her voice no longer betrayed sheer panic. "I think I'm okay. Can you tell me what will happen now? Am I in trouble?"

"Oh, heavens no, sweetheart, you just got caught up in a bad situation. The man you were house-sitting for, Robert Strickland, has been accused of some pretty horrific things, and we've arrested him. We're going to take you to the hospital and make sure you're physically all right. This is a terrible thing to happen to anyone, and we want to be sure you haven't been hurt in ways that aren't just physical. Someone will be talking to you about that, too. We're going to put you in touch with Victims' Services and they'll help you get through this. Is there anyone you would like us to call to be with you right now?"

"Yes, my brother," Christina answered, "but my phone and my purse are back inside the house. He wouldn't let me bring them."

Eve turned to a nearby uniform. "Officer, can you help get Christina's personal belongings out of the house?"

"It's a black purse with a letter 'C' on the front – it's on the kitchen counter," Christina said. The officer dipped his head and turned toward the house.

"I see your ambulance is here, Christina," Eve said. "Let me go talk to them for a few seconds and I'll be right back—are you going to be okay?" Christina nodded yes. As Eve was about to leave, a young black patrol officer wearing a ready smile and a stethoscope and carrying a blood pressure cuff appeared beside Christina. Eve added, "This officer's name is Julia, and she will stay with you. She is here to help you with anything you need."

The disco-ball effect of red, blue, white, and yellow spears of light from gumballs, light bars, the rear panels of ambulances, taillights, and headlights was now dancing across the entire neighborhood. With Eve taking responsibility for Christina's care, I joined the team members now encircling Strickland. I peered into the back seat of Strickland's vehicle through the open door and saw a large section of heavy deck plate on the far side, and splintered plywood panels on the near seat. Three bulletproof vests were haphazardly spread across the footwells. I could see the blued butt of a handgun in the far footwell and called it out to Paul.

Paul waved over one of the uniforms from the street. "Officer, we have an unsecured handgun in the rear driver's side area of this vehicle. I need you to stand watch over the vehicle until someone from the forensics team can secure, bag, and tag the weapon."

Paul stepped a few feet to my left, where Strickland was laying on the grass pending medical transport. As Paul stood over him, he couldn't help but smile, nodding slightly, satisfied with the outcome. Strickland glared at Paul and tried to spit to one side. But he was facing upward, and his effort was weak. The blood-tainted spittle came back into his face, splattering on his cheek. Strickland averted his face, unwilling to make further eye contact.

Paul squatted down, just above Strickland's right shoulder where he'd been shot, and said, "Bob, tomorrow for lunch our detention facility will feature chopped-up moldy whitefish pressure-formed into small squares, battered with corn flour and mouse droppings, and deep-fat-fried in rancid oil they haven't changed in a week. I know it's fish...well, technically. Ask our sommelier for a rosé of Pinot Noir—it will go nicely with that." Paul patted Strickland's wounded shoulder twice—quickly but very firmly—as he arose to move on to better things.

A second group of paramedics soon arrived, and their ambulance transported Strickland, accompanied by two armed officers, to the hospital. The HAZMAT team responded to the scene to deal with Strickland's Lexus, now leaking automotive fluids, including gasoline, onto the street.

Only after Strickland was safely carted away by the EMTs could the arrest team breathe a sigh of relief that the apprehension had been successful despite its setbacks. The crime scene tape and pylons were placed as the forensics team took control of Strickland's vehicle and property and began their work.

Neighboring residents returning to their homes were graciously thanked for their trouble and sacrifices. The day's events would no doubt feed the subdivision's rumor mill for years on end. The SWAT team closed up shop and headed back to their home base.

Louis, Marci, Eve, and Paul agreed to finish their reports first thing in the morning. I removed my vest and helmet—I was looking forward to heading home and spending some quality time with Paul. But we made a deal that before we enjoyed our evening together, we'd go visit Steve at the hospital.

Though it certainly had its white-knuckle moments, it had ended up being one of those very rare, very good, days.