Midnight Hero - By Diana Duncan Page 0,48
inside the tent. “Shooting through wind, rain or glass changes the bullet’s trajectory. One miscalculation and you’ve got dead officers and/or hostages. Which is why snipers spend hundreds of hours of their own time on the firing range. A lot of lives depend on them. They’re carrying a huge responsibility on their shoulders.”
“You all carry heavy responsibility.” Her voice was thick with sadness for both the dead and the staunch officers who had to make the wrenching decisions. “Hold many lives in your hands.”
He backed out of the tent and studied her somber face. “Ah, sorry, baby. More than you wanted to know.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m beginning to see the quandaries police officers face. Imagining what your job is like doesn’t even begin to come close. It’s important for me to know the truth. Knowing the circumstances helps me understand how you react to things. Helps me understand what you do and why you do it.”
His considering gaze studied her. “A few hours ago, this conversation would have freaked you out.”
“A few hours ago, I was living in la-la land. Reality got shoved in my face.” She walked to the shelves and returned with a butane camping lantern, waterproof matches, insulated mugs and bottled water. “What else is happening out there?”
“Greene has probably called the birds for air support.”
“You mean helicopters?”
“Yeah. And the war wagon, the armored transport truck, will be parked by the command center. It’s jam-packed with battering rams, door breechers, flash-bangs, tear gas, grenades. Guns of every caliber. A shoulder-held missile launcher. Even a computer center. Everything needed for close-quarters urban combat.”
He assembled a lantern with his usual efficient grace. “Now that I’ve signaled the position and condition of all involved, and command knows no lives are in immediate jeopardy, we can stand down for a while. We’ve done our jobs and we can let them do theirs.”
“What will they do?”
“Wait. Negotiate. Wait some more. Cold, darkness, the long dragging hours all work in SWAT’s favor. The suspects are under high tension. Uncertain of their position or tonight’s outcome. The stressful conditions are wearing on their nerves by the minute. Hell, by the end of a siege, most suspects are happy to surrender and go to a nice, warm, well-lit jail cell.”
“Most.” She carried the supplies into the tent, and he followed with the lantern. “Not all.”
“No.” He scratched a match on the box and lit the lantern. “I could have used these earlier. Too bad we were at the opposite end of the third floor.” He adjusted a knob and a soft glow permeated the tent. “There are always a few who insist on going down hard. Let’s hope we don’t come to that.”
She removed cheese, rolls and napkins from the bag, and began to tear the rolls in half. “If we do?”
He retrieved the flashlights from outside. “No need to worry in advance. We’ll handle it as it happens.”
Anxiety quivered inside her. “I’ll bet you’ve worried in advance, haven’t you?”
“Worrying and planning are two different entities. I’ve run a couple mental scenarios, just in case.”
“So, what are they? What’s our next task?”
“At the moment, our priorities are eat, rest and recharge.” He extracted the cardboard cups of soup, cocoa and coffee and transferred them to the insulated mugs she’d found. “The battle is far from over. We’ll need every iota of energy, strength and wits to survive the night.”
Busy stacking cheese on the rolls, she jerked, nearly dropping the food. “Will we survive the night?”
“Yeah. We will. One step at a time.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I refuse to consider any other option.”
Her Lancelot would never give up. Never surrender to evil. He’d fight to the last breath. Well, dang it, so would she. If, like the Cowardly Lion, she could only find her courage. She passed him a napkin holding two makeshift cheese sandwiches. “I owe you an apology.”
He handed her a warm mug of soup and a plastic spoon. “Eat.”
“But—”
“Baby, eat now. Apologize later. I insist.”
“Only because you insist.” She’d probably be more coherent after nourishment anyway.
Snuggled inside the tent, the lantern lending a soft glow, they feasted. The simple but hearty food and warm drinks lifted Bailey’s spirits and restored her energy.
Con finished his pie and coffee, stretched, and gave a satisfied groan. “That hit the spot. My stomach was starting to think my throat had been cut.”
He threw their trash into the trash can in the storeroom. Back inside the tent, he drew her down beside him, using the folded comforter as