Andrew Peterson - Forced to Kill

Steeling herself against the pain in her forearm and feet, she hooked her arms under his shoulders and dragged him toward the door leading into the garage. She cried out as the torn muscles in her left arm ripped even more. She bit her lip and kept going, but the slate floor in front of the garage door was covered with broken glass and debris. She found a push broom in the garage and swept a corridor through the mess, then used the broom to prop open the door.

She dragged Nathan across the threshold, but quickly decided that dead-lifting him into his Mustang would be impossible. At six-foot-five, 240 pounds, he felt like solid iron. She’d never be able to do it.

The hand on her shoulder made her yelp in fear.

She whipped around, ready for a fight.

“ Harvey! ”

“I’ve got him. How bad is your arm?”

“How did you-”

“Later. How bad is your arm?”

“I think it’s okay, just bleeding a lot.”

“Does Nathan have any kind of spinal wound?”

“I don’t think so.”

She marveled at how easily Harvey lifted him off the garage floor and carried him out to the driveway.

“Holly, cover us.”

She crouched with her Glock and faced the dark garage. She stole a look over her shoulder as Harvey examined Nathan’s scalp wound and took his pulse. He poked Nathan in the shoulder. Hard. Nathan stirred a little and moaned. She recalled from her first-responder medical training that Harvey had just performed part of a Glasgow coma scale assessment.

Harvey looked up. “Stay alert, Holly. He should be okay. How many attacked you?”

“Four. One got away.”

“Wait here. I’m going to retrieve their weapons. You okay?”

“Nathan said there’s a severed finger in the den. He wants me to take it.”

“I’ll get it. Where are your spare mags?”

“The bedroom on the nightstand.”

“Nathan’s gun?”

“Near the den.”

Harvey pulled his Sig from the small of his back. “I’ll be right back. You sure you’re one hundred percent?”

She nodded.

“If anyone other than me comes back through this garage, shoot to kill. Clear?”

“Clear.”

She heard sirens approaching and figured they had less than two minutes before the scene swarmed with SDPD.

“My clothes are in the hall closet.”

“No problem. I’ll be right back. Your defensive area is the front of the house. I’ve got everything else.”

“Understood.”

Thirty seconds later Harvey returned, carrying three MP5 assault pistols, her spare magazines, clip holster, and thankfully, her clothes and shoes. He set the weapons down. “I’ll cover us while you get dressed.”

She wasted no time. Next, she clipped her service weapon holster to her belt and changed magazines in the gun. “Good to go,” she said.

“I’m going to stash these guns in my trunk. I’ll give you a warbling whistle just before I reappear. Give me about thirty seconds.”

She watched Harvey disappear down the sidewalk. Alone now, with Nathan at her feet, she reflected on what just happened. It seemed surreal, like a Dali painting. She had a difficult time believing it had actually happened. Sure, she was an FBI agent, but she wasn’t SWAT trained, and she’d never fired her weapon in anger, let alone killed anyone. Had she really just fought a vicious firefight against four mercenaries armed with submachine guns? She wanted to pinch herself. It seemed crazy. Everything happened so fast. Given the circumstances, she thought she did pretty well. It seemed little consolation. Nathan was lying on the concrete, bleeding from a head wound.

Keeping her mind focused, she kept scanning Nathan’s front yard and the surrounding neighborhood for threats. A few people had turned on porch lights. The wail of approaching sirens was much closer. She heard Harvey’s whistle and called out, “Clear.”

Harvey appeared from behind a hedge separating Nathan’s property with its neighbor to the east. He hustled up to her position. “I think you should have your FBI badge out when the cavalry gets here. We’ve got less than thirty seconds. No sudden movements. We’ll let the first officer on scene take control. Let’s put our weapons on the deck and step back from them.”

The police cruiser arrived in a big hurry with its siren howling and light bar flashing. The officer killed the siren, parked in the middle of the street and climbed out, his weapon already drawn.

“You’re on,” Harvey whispered.

Holding her badge at arm’s length, she spoke loudly and forcefully. “FBI. Special Agent in Charge, Holly Simpson, Sacramento field office.”

The officer’s response was predictable. He trained his service piece on them and closed to within twenty feet. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

She and Harvey complied.

“We need a bus,” she added. “Blunt force head trauma. Semiconscious. Possibly a glancing bullet wound.”

“Copy that,” the officer replied, “medical is already on the way.” He spoke into his lapel mike. A second cruiser arrived from the opposite direction. Two more sirens closed in.

Holly pointed toward the house. “We’ve got three dead inside, a fourth escaped on foot. He’s armed with an assault pistol and dressed in tactical SWAT gear with a gunshot wound to his hand.”

Keeping his weapon aimed at them, he again said, “Copy,” and relayed the info.

Holly heard a second officer move in behind her.

“I’d like to search you for weapons and verify your identity.”

“No problem, Officer. My service piece is on the ground in front of me.”

He looked at Harvey, then back to her. “He with you?”

“Yes.”

The cop addressed Harvey. “Your identity, please?”

“Harvey Fontana. I own First Security, Incorporated.”

“The company with the radio ads?”

Harv nodded toward Nathan. “My business partner, Nathan McBride. The break-in set off an alarm that relayed to my cell phone. I wasn’t far away. That’s why I’m here. We’ve got a sensitive crime scene in there. This is an FBI-involved shooting. ”

“Understood. First things first. Let’s get your identities verified. Then we’ll secure and protect the crime scene. I want both of you to lay facedown on the ground with your arms out to your sides. We’ll clear this up quickly.”

She saw the officer focus on the bloody washcloth tied to her arm.

“We’ll get you medical treatment and contact your San Diego field office and let them know what happened. Just let me confirm your identities and we’ll get this straightened out double quick.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

Twenty minutes later, the paramedics were sliding Nathan’s gurney into the back of the ambulance and closing the double doors. By the time they left in Harvey’s Mercedes, at least twelve SDPD cruisers had arrived on scene, interspersed with five San Diego Fire Department engines and patrol units. Three additional ambulances had also arrived. Every house within one hundred yards of ground zero was being barraged with red-and-blue stroboscopic flashes. Two news helicopters were orbiting at a safe distance while a police helicopter used its blinding spot to search the neighborhood for the missing merc. Holly was impressed by the efficiency and professionalism of the SDPD.

She felt certain she’d hear from San Diego’s SAC tonight, probably within the hour. What a paperwork nightmare. At least Nathan seemed stable and didn’t appear to have too serious a head injury. He’d have to undergo all kinds of tests to make sure, but she wasn’t too worried. Her throbbing arm reminded her she needed some medical attention herself. Nothing some stitches and antibiotics couldn’t handle.

The ambulance pulled up to the emergency room’s entrance. Harvey killed the headlights and parked behind it. Nathan waved as the paramedics pulled his gurney out. She felt her chest tighten. Even strapped to a gurney with a blood-soaked bandage around his head, Nathan had a commanding presence.