Yeah, I needed mental help but I didn’t think that was what Luke was offering.
“Help?”
“With your kit? Do you need me to lock your weapon in the TC safe?”
I was on my knees collapsing the bipod when I answered, “No, but thanks.”
Luke jerked his chin and started packing up his spotting gear.
We were hoofing it back to the office when Luke broke the silence.
“How often does SWAT get called out?”
“Well, the weather’s warm and there’s a full moon. It feels like we’ve been doing double call-outs all week. Last week was slow—three warrants and four barricades. Hopefully next week we can go back to that.”
We made it to the back door. Luke held it open and smiled. “After you.”
“Back to checkin’ out my ass?”
“Yep.”
“See you around, Luke. Thanks for today.”
“Yeah, Shiloh, see you around.”
Now that light-hearted, teasing Luke was back, I wished I had time to stick around and flirt. But alas, I did not.
Sweat trickled down under my helmet, rolled down my temple, down the side of my face, dripped off my chin. Some might think the physical training on the road to becoming a Special Weapons and Tactical Operator was hard. And it was—totally. But you want to know what the hardest freaking part was? Not wiping the sweat off your face. No joke. When you’re in full kit with the hot sun beating down, humidity so thick you actually debate the necessity of your body armor and contemplate tearing off your vest, and the annoying dripping starts, it takes some serious self-control not to wipe the bead of sweat off the tip of your nose.
“Sir. Think about your family. We have you surrounded!” Chip, our loud hailer, yelled. “Come out the front door with your hands up.”
Chip had been at this for an hour. The dude was not going to come out with his hands up. If he were, he would’ve done it already.
“I have movement,” Mereno radioed. “Window A three.”
My gaze snapped to the third window from the left side of the house and I saw the blinds pulled apart and someone peering out. I brought my M4 up and went to glass.
I see you, asshole.
With the blaring sun at my back through the magnification of my scope, I could see a pair of brown eyes peeking out the blinds shifting right to left. Probably weighing his odds of escape.
There were none. The dude was surrounded. Entry Team Charlie was at the rear of the house. Alpha Team had the front covered. He wasn’t getting out of the house without being apprehended.
“Pump gas,” Lieutenant Ocala radioed from the command patrol vehicle parked three houses down.
“About fucking time,” Gordy muttered from beside me.
It would seem I wasn’t the only one impatient.
“Six-thirty on the move,” Mereno returned.
Two seconds later the thunk of the less-than-lethal munitions weapon deploying the CS ferret went off and glass shattered.
“Damn good shot,” Gordy continued his commentary.
He wasn’t lying. Mereno’s aim was true.
“The only move you can make is to come out with your hands up,” Chip said into the bullhorn. “The gas is only going to get worse.”
White powder from the gas canister barely wafted out the broken window before Ocala ordered, “Entry teams go.”
Go time.
Gordy shuffled from our position and like the well-trained machine we were Gordy and I met Riddle and Watson near the front door. Riddle swung the battering ram and the front door splintered. Riddle tossed the ram to the side like it weighed nothing when in actuality the bitch weighed a ton. Behind a riot shield, Watson took point and made entry. Riddle followed, I was in next, and Gordy had my six.
I could hear Charlie Team coming, shattering a window, when the suspect ran straight at me and dipped his shoulder.
No weapon.
Thank God.
Thank you, God.
I side-stepped and swung the butt of my M4, catching the guy in his jaw.
Then the dude was no longer standing. Mereno had him belly to the ground with his arms twisted behind his back.
“And that’s how it’s done,” Riddle whooped. “Suspect in custody.”
The room filled with men and now the slow, meticulous processes of clearing the structure began.
Six hours later I was finally on my way home.
3
“I heard you took Sunny out the other day,” Jason Walker said and stopped next to the weight bench I was using.
“What?”
“Sunny Kent. You took her out to the range.”
Shiloh.
Yes, I indeed had taken the beautiful police officer to the range. And in an act of award-winning self-control, I’d left it at that. Shiloh