Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 68576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68576 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“Fuck yeah,” Abe fell into step directly behind me.
The other four fell into step behind him, and we marched up to the side wall that had the ladder that led to the roof.
Careful with our step, we made our way to the large room where the hostages were being held in the bank.
We’d not taken this route earlier due to the multitude of skylights in the roof. The stability of the area in which we’d have to move was unlikely to hold all of our weight.
“Trinidad,” I said. “You and Abe walk around the windows, make sure to be careful of the shadows you cast, and get in place.”
The two moved, silent as shadows.
“The rest of you spread out among the windows,” I urged.
I dropped down to the closest skylight, not quite close enough that I could see directly in, and waited.
“Team two, set?” I asked.
“Set,” Bastien confirmed.
“Numbers,” I said. “What’s it looking like?”
“Kid’s okay, I can see him now in his mother’s arms. She has her hand over his mouth,” Numbers murmured.
“Fatima?” I asked.
“I can see all four hostages now, but I can’t see the suspect.”
“Fuck!”
I didn’t know who said that, so my heart pounded in my throat for a few long seconds before Fatima came on and said, “Ulrich fell down the stairs.”
A little levity rolled through the group.
“I’m okay,” Ulrich wheezed.
I used the mirror in my pocket to push over the skylight, and I saw the shooter Fatima had identified earlier.
I also saw the large hole in the wall above the mother who was now holding on so tight to her toddler that he was red with indignation.
I put the kid at about three or so years old. He was much bigger than Forest, but I could tell that he was confused, not comprehending anything about the situation he was currently in.
“Hey, Chief, did you get the specs on the glass yet?” I asked my father.
My dad was here because he was first on scene because he’d been on his way home from work.
“Tempered,” he answered. “Breaks like normal glass just fine, according to the blueprints with the city.”
I jerked my chin at Abe and said, “Abe, do you have a clear shot?”
Normally, we would have tried a little harder to get him to talk to the negotiator, but his utter lack of communication, and his erratic behavior, had pushed me to make this decision earlier than we usually would have.
We’d been at it for two hours, and not once had he agreed to talk to us.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Thuy,” I said. “Get ready to provide backup. Team two, stand by.”
Abe aimed and fired.
The shot took the guy in the chest, right above the heart.
He went down fast, but no blood spread on the floor.
In fact, the motherfucker got right back up.
Thuy stood up and took aim, hitting the suspect in the shoulder.
The guy rolled, and just so happened to come right under my skylight.
He pulled the shotgun that he’d just so happened to keep hold of throughout it all and raised it.
The toddler’s face would forever be seared in my brain at that very second in time.
Without thought, I aimed and fired, hitting the guy in the face.
The guy’s head went back, smacking so hard into the pristine lobby floor that it bounced back up again.
Blood and brain matter went flying.
“Team two,” I said. “Clear.”
Only when all of the hostages were out did I exit the roof.
I made it down to the bottom in time to hear a reporter say, “Why did you have to kill him?”
Before I could stop myself, I said, “It was either kill him or watch him shoot a toddler in the face. Which, exactly, would you have chosen, Ms. Smith?”
I hated this reporter with a passion.
She was always screaming about how unfair and unjust the justice system was and how law enforcement was made up of a bunch of corrupt individuals who would rather have power than provide support.
Ms. Smith turned to me and glared. “You are not God!”
“No,” I said. “But I am upheld by my sworn oath to protect the innocent. And just sayin’, but a fifty-two-year-old drunk who wanted money is a whole lot less innocent than a three-year-old whose worst crime might be stealing a cookie from his brother.”
And yes, I’d heard the father, who was clearly distraught, relay that story while we stood in the parking lot getting information on the hostages.
“You…” Ms. Smith started again, but my dad smoothly and succinctly interrupted her by saying, “Ms. Smith, please respect the police line until we can get the scene fully secure.”
Ms. Smith continued to cause a ruckus, but I went back to the SWAT truck and crawled inside.
“That’s the first time anyone has refused to even speak to me,” Elise sighed.
“Don’t worry,” Fatima said as she crawled into the back with us, sniper rifle already broken down and back in its carrying case. “There’s a first time for everything.”