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* * *
Brady Owens listened to the hum of tires as the First Response Squad raced toward MAX’s final Yellow Line stop near Portland State University. A 911 call from the train operator who’d been listening into the hostage situation told them the shooter planned to disembark with his hostage at this stop.
“ETA two minutes,” team leader Jake Marsh announced from the driver’s seat.
“Roger that,” Brady said, his pulse ratcheting up at the call to action.
His fellow FRS members sitting on bench seats in the rear of the truck responded with somber affirmatives. Negotiator Archer Reed bowed his head in prayer. He would carry the heaviest duty tonight, talking the gunman down, hopefully preventing the need for Brady’s services as the team sniper. Paramedic Darcie Stevens would render aid to the traumatized woman and anyone injured in the incident. Jake would direct the action and bomb tech Cash Dixon would fill in wherever Jake asked. The only one missing from their six-person emergency response team was their other negotiator, Skyler, who was on her honeymoon.
Brady couldn’t imagine any other people he’d want to take with him into the tense situation awaiting them. All team members except Darcie were sworn sheriff’s deputies who fulfilled other job responsibilities when they weren’t responding to an emergency. Though assigned to the county sheriff’s department, they were dispatched to handle negotiations and major emergencies for the entire Portland metro area regardless of county lines.
“We’re here.” Jake swung their mobile command center the size of a package delivery truck to the curb out of view of the MAX stop.
Even late at night, students would be milling about. The team would contain the shooter in the train and cordon off the area to protect innocent lives. Then Archer would use the train’s PA system to communicate with the gunman.
That was the plan. But they had no time to run the scenario, and plans could go wrong.
Curling his .330 Winchester Magnum rifle closer, Brady mentally checked off his steps. Ammo first. Check. Already loaded in his rifle. If he had to shoot, it would be through glass, requiring special ammo to reduce deflection on glass penetration. Extra ammo was in his vest. Scope was fixed and calibrated. Binoculars and laser range finder snug in his pocket. He patted his vest pocket to confirm. He was ready. He could do this.
Jake cut the engine, then joined the team. He glanced at Darryl Collins, the computer tech assigned to their team, who sat behind a console. “We have eyes or ears on the train yet?”
“I’m still working with the MAX tech team to patch us through.”
“Well, get ’em. No way we’re going in blind.” Jake eyed the team, his gaze sharp and focused. “The gunman is not getting off the train with Morgan Thorsby and she’s getting out of this alive and well. You got that?”
They nodded.
“You have your assignments.” Jake clapped his hands. “Let’s roll.”
Brady slung his rifle over his shoulder and headed into the night, toward the perfect location he’d chosen in a yard abutting an apartment complex. He jogged across the road and slipped through the gate. Resting his arm on a fence post topped with snow, he took a shooting stance. He’d like to get into a more natural position, but that wasn’t an option. No problem. He’d made shots in every position imaginable as a Marine Scout Sniper. He sighted in the scope and adjusted for the wind.
“Falcon, in position,” he said into his microphone.
“Roger that, Falcon,” came Jake’s response. “Stand by. Train ETA in one minute. Audio streaming.”
With more than one agency responding to the incident, they would use code names when communicating. The group had long ago voted on an animal name for each person. Brady was tagged Falcon, as the bird and he both moved fast. Cash got Termite since they were demolitions experts. Archer, Mockingbird for his soothing voice. And Jake? He had the best name of all. Papa Bear.
“Got eyes and ears, sir,” Darryl’s voice came over Brady’s earpiece.
“Then we’re a go, Falcon,” Jake said. “TriMet has confirmed the doors will remain closed on this car and Mockingbird is patched through to the train. We’ll give Termite time to escort passengers in the other cars to a secured spot, then Mockingbird will take over.”
“Roger that, Papa Bear,” Brady confirmed. “I’m ready.”
But was he ready? He wasn’t sure. Not completely, anyway. Not after their last callout, when he’d hesitated to take the shot. He was good with taking extreme measures for hostage-taking criminals and drug dealers, but the prior callout involved a former marine. Brady had felt like he was taking out a family member. Couldn’t be helped, though. The man had lost touch with reality. If Brady hadn’t acted, the guy would have killed his wife and three sweet children.
Now Brady wasn’t sure how he’d react when it came time to pull the trigger.
The train rolled in, the brakes squealing to a stop.
Focus, man. Focus. He fine-tuned his scope and shut out everything around him. The biting wind. The falling snow. The flag flapping on the next building. The sound of Cash moving people out of the line of fire. All of it faded into the background, his eye fixed dead center on his scope.
The occupants of the car came into focus in the crosshairs. Morgan Thorsby was blonde, petite and wearing a trench coat tied over what looked like an expensive suit, but it was the gunman, Craig Shaw, who Brady was most interested in.
Brady adjusted his scope. Sighted on the T-zone of Craig’s head.
“I have a target, but no shot. No shot.” Brady kept his eyes on the scope, but wouldn’t shoot before an attempt was made to end this standoff without loss of life.
“Craig,” Archer’s voice came over the train’s speaker.
Craig’s head shot up. “Who’s that? How do you know me?”
Brady listened through his earpiece as Archer introduced himself and started the process of talking Craig into surrendering.
Craig seemed to listen, then suddenly pivoted and pounded on the door, the sound reverberating through the silent car. “Open it now or I’ll kill Morgan right here!”
“Don’t do anything rash, Craig,” Archer said over the train’s speaker. “We’ve got all the time in the world to talk this through.”
“I don’t want to talk,” Craig screamed. “I want out of this tin can, now!”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the ability to open the doors, Craig.” Archer was a tough law enforcement officer. Sharp. Intense, but he also had a soothing way about him and his voice was unhurried and comforting.
“I don’t care, man,” Craig fired back. “Get these doors open or I will shoot her. I swear I will. You’ve got five minutes. You hear me? Five minutes. If I’m still locked in here then, she dies.”
TWO (#ulink_ef6197cf-9c01-546f-9011-d30cdaa649c5)
“Dumb cops,” Craig muttered as he gestured at the door with his gun. He obviously thought Archer was no longer listening, but Brady knew his teammate was not only listening, he was intently watching.
“I could help you with them,” Morgan Thorsby said. “As an attorney, I can act as a go-between to negotiate your demands.”
“Demands? I don’t have demands. I just want to get off the stupid train with you in tow.” He massaged his forehead with his free hand.
“They’ll let you off if you surrender your gun,” Morgan continued.
Brady was surprised she had the presence of mind to talk so calmly to a man holding her life in his hands. Even more surprising, Archer didn’t shut her down. Maybe she was saying the right things and Archer thought she could help.
“And then what?” Craig asked. “I step off the train and some hotshot kills me? No, thanks.”
“You have it backwards. If you don’t surrender the gun, that hotshot you mentioned is going to go to work and you won’t get off the train alive.”
“Fine. But if that happens, I’m taking you with me.” He grabbed Morgan and jerked her head back, planting the gun against her temple again.
“Wait. Let me talk to the negotiator when he comes back on. I’ll tell him you haven’t harmed anyone and that you’re going to surrender. You can give me the gun, and we can walk out together. Then I’ll represent you or find a good criminal lawyer for you.”
Brady heard the underlying tremble in Morgan’s tone but it was still soothing, almost hypnotic. If Brady were the shooter, he would gladly do what she asked.
Craig took a step back. “You’d represent me, even after this?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’ve been drinking to mask your loss. If you had a clear head, you—”
“I’d do the same thing.”
The guy’s biting tone said he was planning to pull that trigger. It made Brady want to end this now, but he wouldn’t do so without Jake’s authority.
Craig stood unmoving and staring at her. Suddenly, something caught his attention in the distance and he spun.
“No!” he shouted. “It’s a trick. I can see them—all of them—cops...coming for me. Well, they won’t find me. I’ll make my own way out.”
He jerked his finger. The gun erupted. Bullets blasted into the window, the safety glass cracking and splintering, but holding.
“Falcon, you are clear to take a shot,” Jake announced.
“Roger that, Papa Bear.” Brady’s gut cramped as he dropped his finger to the trigger. Took a deep breath. Released a long hiss of air. Prepared to squeeze. Craig—no, the target, Brady reminded himself—shifted, his eyes coming into view. Filled with rage, with pain.
Brady hesitated.
Craig started for Morgan, bending toward her. Brady had to act now or the window of opportunity would be gone. He quickly adjusted and squeezed the trigger. The bullet sliced through the air. Craig suddenly lurched forward, Morgan falling in the other direction. She hit the ground, disappearing from the scope.
Brady’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t think his shot hit Craig. Looked more like he’d fallen. But what about Morgan? His bullet couldn’t have hit her, could it? Even if it hadn’t, his moment of hesitation had given Craig a chance to move closer to Morgan and changed Brady’s angle. Maybe it had put Morgan in the path of shattering glass. He wouldn’t know until he had a chance to get inside the train car and look around.
“Move, move, move,” came Jake’s voice as he dispatched the team to secure the gunman and train.
Brady kept his scope honed on the train when all he wanted to do was race across the street and see if Morgan was alive. He couldn’t, though. He had to hold his position until Jake gave the all clear.
He waited. Watched.
The team charged the train. The doors slid open. Brady caught a look at Craig and Morgan on the floor. Blood colored Morgan’s arm. Good. If Brady had hit her, it wasn’t a body shot. She should make it.
She held up Craig’s gun. Looked like it hadn’t been her injury taking her down. Instead, she’d dropped to the floor to retrieve the gun. Archer put a knee in Craig’s back and cuffed him. Jake retrieved Craig’s gun while Cash went to Morgan and comforted her.
“Stand down, Falcon,” Jake said.
Brady wasted no time strapping his rifle over his shoulder and taking off toward the train, moving as fast as he could. His gaze went straight to Morgan. On the floor, sitting up and alert, she’d clamped a hand over her injured arm. Blood had oozed through her fingers. Fresh. Red. But no longer increasing.
Brady sighed out his relief. Guilt flooded in. His hesitation had likely caused her injury. Still, it could have been far worse. He could have severely injured her.
Thank You, God, for protecting her, he thought and joined Cash who was standing over her and calling on his radio for Darcie.
“Hang tight,” Cash said to Morgan. “Our medic is on the way.”
“Seems like the bleeding has stopped,” Morgan said, not sounding as fearful as Brady expected.
Sure, lingering fear darkened her eyes, but he liked the strength he saw in her. She was something else. Most women would be fainting or falling apart in this situation, but Morgan remained strong.
Brady’s kind of woman. Not clingy. Not needy. Her own person, standing strong. Until he shot her. Or his bullet sent glass flying into her arm.
Right. She’s hurt because of me. He should apologize for the injury, but to do so, he’d have to admit he’d frozen, and his hesitation could very well have caused her injury.
He’d have to find a way to deal with that. Because one thing he knew for certain, a sniper who froze wasn’t good for anyone, least of all the First Response Squad. The only way to combat that was to get over what was causing it or leave the team.
* * *
Icy-cold air laden with flurrying snow rushed into the train car as Morgan reached for a pole to get to her feet. It hit her then. She’d been shot. Shot! It was only a superficial wound, but even so, a bullet had grazed her arm.
A bullet. An honest-to-goodness bullet.
The night came flashing back like a fast-forwarded video. The pictures were bright, but blurred. The sounds frantic. Craig coming for her, wanting to kill her, his bullets piercing the glass, sending spidery cracks racing through it. Her decision to put the active shooter training into practice. To fight. When Craig no longer had his gun planted against her head, she’d shot out her foot and tripped him. It was risky, but she’d had no choice. He was going to kill her. Right there in the train if she did nothing.
He’d crashed to the floor. The gun skittered away. She’d started to go after it when another gun blast sounded from a distance. The zip of a bullet was followed by the slice in her arm, pain radiating up. But she’d kept her cool and located the gun before Craig could get to his feet.
She shuddered and forced her thoughts to the present. The deputy who’d called for a medic was hauling Craig off in handcuffs. His face was peppered with cuts from the glass. His shoulder was bloody, but he didn’t seem to notice.
He came to a stop next to Morgan and glared at her. “Don’t think this is the last of this. I’ll make you pay.”
“Pretty hard to do from prison,” the deputy said.
Craig sneered at her. “I’ll find a way.”
“Come on, Shaw.” The deputy jerked Craig’s cuffs and prodded him off the train.
With Craig gone, she was suddenly aware of another deputy who’d arrived later than the others staring down at her. He stood tall and commanding as if protecting her from an unseen foe.
Unseen foe. Ha! A thought she’d never expected to have.
It was all so surreal, and she couldn’t handle much more. She needed to give her statement and get out of there before she fell apart. First, she had to get off the floor, out of the glass and away from the blood.
She pulled up on the pole. Her knees buckled and the blood drained from her head. She wobbled.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” the deputy asked. The car seemed to be spinning, and it was all she could do to find a seat before hitting the floor.
“Head between your knees or you’re going to keel over.” He stepped forward and a strong hand pushed her head down, then held it in place.
A whooshing noise rushed through Morgan’s ears, and she blinked hard to try to clear the dizziness. She was aware of movement around her and the man’s foot as he tapped on the metal floor, as if anxious to leave. Her vision was starting to clear, and she tried to sit up.
“Not yet,” he said, obviously used to getting his way.
She waited a few more moments. “I’m good to sit up.”
“You’re sure you won’t faint on me?” His tone had lightened. “’Cause superhero code says a damsel in distress can only be rescued once a day.” He grinned.
“No worries. I don’t need rescuing, by you or anyone else,” she replied more vehemently than called for. He was simply trying to alleviate her stress with a joke, but she was tired of people thinking she needed taking care of.
“Have it your way.” His hand retracted.
She shot up. Her head spun. She closed her eyes and waited it out.
“Maybe you should’ve taken your time sitting up there,” he said, a Midwestern flavor to his tone.
She opened her eyes and glared up at him. Her gaze had to travel quite a distance to reach his eyes. Past a broad chest. Past some very nice shoulders, to a handsome face. With his blond hair worn in a messy style, he looked more like a laid-back surfer than a cop.
