echoed the information for all units, “Thirteen-Adam-Five and half of One-John-Thirteen are responding to a possible school shooting in progress at the Caldecott Academy on Thornhill Drive. Any further details, Thirteen-Adam-Five?”
Buckner made a sharp left onto Elverton Drive, the Police Interceptor Utility taking the corner without a hint of body sway while Sinclair’s big sedan fishtailed on the wet road at the same speed. In the background, he heard Braddock providing a description of the suspects and the likelihood that three or more men were armed with AK-47-type weapons and one or more bombs similar to what detonated on Lakeshore Drive two days ago. Sinclair took a quick left switchback, which normal drivers would take at ten miles an hour, at twice that, throwing Braddock against the passenger door. He accelerated down a straightaway, trying to keep Buckner in sight and praying no one would pull out of a driveway in front of him.
The radio screamed in Sinclair’s ears with units advising they were en route to the school. The nearest one was coming from Forty-First and Telegraph, which would probably take just under ten minutes at code-three speed. The Oakland Hills were blessed with the lowest crime rate in the city, which meant their police coverage was bare bones, but when they did have a significant crime in progress, the nearest officer was often a long way off and his nearest cover officer even farther.
“Advise all responding units,” Braddock said over the radio, “to shut down lights and sirens at least a mile away.”
The dispatcher relayed the instructions for all other units on the channel.
When Buckner crossed Beauforest Drive, the Caldecott Academy appeared ahead. Sinclair and every officer in Oakland had been trained how to respond to active shooter incidents. Traditional police tactics that included a slow, methodical, cautious approach and waiting for SWAT teams did nothing but give these kind of shooters more time to kill. Even though the risk to responding officers was great, the only way to stop an active shooter was to rush through the scene toward the gunfire and engage him.
Buckner stopped his vehicle at the far end of the parking lot. Sinclair pulled alongside and popped the trunk. He and Braddock stripped off their coats, threw them in the trunk, and pulled out their Kevlar vests. Although Sinclair wished for a heavy tactical vest—one that would stop 7.62x39 rounds—and the M4 rifle he had when he was on the SWAT team, they only had two choices. They could wait for more officers with the right equipment to gain a tactical advantage or rush toward the sound of gunfire and screaming children to eliminate the threat with what they had.
Buckner held a Remington 870, the standard shotgun mounted in every marked Oakland police car. He worked the pump action and racked a round into the chamber. He then slid another 12-gauge round from the carrier on the shotgun’s stock and fed it into the gun’s magazine, giving him five rounds of double-ought buckshot in the gun and four more rounds in the carrier. Sinclair and Braddock gave him a thumbs-up to indicate they were ready. There was no need to discuss who would take point—the officer in uniform with the biggest gun was the logical choice. Buckner took off on a slow jog toward the front door, with Sinclair falling in behind him and Braddock taking up the rear.
Gunshots echoed from inside the school. Two, then three more, followed by a pause, and then a succession of shots too numerous to count. The shots were sharp and loud, as Sinclair had feared, undoubtedly coming from rifles such as AK-47s or SKSs. Armed with only handguns and a shotgun, they were significantly outgunned.
Buckner squeezed his lapel mic and said, “Shots fired inside. We’re on the scene and approaching the front door.”
Sinclair gripped his .45 Sig Sauer with both hands at a low ready as his eyes scanned the parking lot and the front windows of the school for any movement. The rain beat down on him, rolling off his head, down his face, and soaking his shirt. He ignored it. In the right side of the parking lot, he spotted the mud-brown Ford Bronco parked next to a green Prius.
A couple rows down, a familiar red Mazda Miata was parked—Alyssa’s car. This was the school where she was doing the career presentation. He felt his heart skip a beat. But he forced himself to return to the present. Mission focus, he reminded himself.
They reached the