Lena Diaz - Tennessee Takedown

No, she couldn’t.

Cursing her conscience, she ducked back and grabbed one of the heavy, old-fashioned phones from a cubicle desktop. After unplugging the cord, she crept down a parallel aisle, hoping to sneak up behind the shooter. She offered up a quick prayer that he hadn’t moved or turned around as she rounded the end of the row. Yes. His back was still facing her. But the SWAT guy was now facing the shooter, and Ashley, his hands raised.

Ashley crept forward, biting her lip, holding the phone in the air. She was pretty sure SWAT guy had seen her. He hadn’t looked directly at her, but his body tensed, and the lines around his eyes tightened.

“Too bad your buddies left you by yourself,” the shooter said. “Looks like they’ll be carting one of their own out the door next.” He raised his gun toward the officer’s face just as Ashley swung the phone with both hands at the shooter’s head.

But instead of hitting him, she hit empty air, spinning in a circle then falling against the wall beside her.

It took her a moment to realize SWAT guy had lunged for the shooter right when she’d swung the phone. He’d grabbed the shooter’s gun and swept his legs out from beneath him. Now both men were rolling on the floor, wrestling for control of the gun.

“Get out of here,” SWAT guy yelled.

Ashley realized he was yelling at her.

The two men rolled into the side aisle, grappling for control.

Leaving SWAT guy’s rifle lying on the floor.

“Go, go, go,” the officer yelled again. “Get out of here, run!”

SWAT guy was heavily muscled and tall, but the shooter was on top of him and must have outweighed him by at least forty pounds. The pistol was slowly, inexorably moving up toward the officer’s face, the only part of his body not covered in armor.

Ashley made her choice. She dropped the phone and grabbed for the rifle.

The shooter twisted toward her and slammed his foot against her calf. She screamed and fell to the floor. Before she could scramble away, he grabbed her long hair and yanked her in front of him like a human shield.

SWAT guy crouched in the aisle a few feet away, glaring at Ashley before focusing on the shooter. The wicked-looking hunting knife in the officer’s hand, along with his glare, had Ashley groaning inside. Instead of helping, she’d gotten in the way and messed everything up. She hadn’t realized the policeman had a knife, and that he’d apparently been about to use it when she’d interfered.

“Let her go,” the officer ordered. “You’re surrounded.”

Ashley glanced around, stunned to see he wasn’t bluffing. She hadn’t heard or seen the other SWAT officers come in, but there were two on her left, another one on the far side of the shooter and, as she watched, a fourth officer entered the aisle behind SWAT guy, who was now crouched in front of the shooter, still holding his knife.

Surrounded was putting it mildly.

“Let her go,” SWAT guy repeated.

The shooter scooted back, pulling Ashley with him, keeping his gun trained on SWAT guy. Ashley struggled against his hold, but he squeezed hard, crushing her in a painful grip against his chest. He scooted back until he was pressed against the wall and couldn’t move any farther.

“I’ll kill her.” He yanked her hair.

Ashley sucked in a sharp breath at the fiery pain. It felt as though he was yanking half her hair out by the roots.

“Back off or she’s dead. You can’t shoot me without hitting her. Back. Off.”

Ashley struggled to draw air into her lungs. She could barely breathe with her head twisted back so hard and tight.

Swat guy clutched his knife and motioned to the two SWAT officers on Ashley’s left side. “He’s right. Lower your weapons and back away. Give him room.”

The shooter turned his head to the side, watching the officers lower their rifles.

He suddenly jerked against Ashley, a guttural moan wheezing out of his throat.

SWAT guy lunged forward, grabbing the shooter’s gun and tossing it away. He chopped his hand down on the shooter’s arm, breaking his hold on Ashley before yanking her away from him.

She twisted in the officer’s arms, looking back toward the shooter. The gunman lay on the floor, convulsing, the haft of a knife sticking out of his neck. Blood bubbled out of the wound.

She clutched the officer’s arm where it circled her waist.

“You—you threw your knife, while he was holding me?” she squeaked.

He gently grasped her chin, forcing her to turn away from the shooter.

“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice gruff but laced with concern.

She dragged her gaze up his armor-covered chest to stare into a pair of stormy blue-gray eyes.

“Are you injured? Did he hurt you?” he demanded.

She swallowed and shook her head. “No. No, he didn’t... I don’t think...” She shuddered. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.”

“How many are there? Did you see any other gunmen?”

“He’s the only one I saw.”

He lifted her away from him. “Get her out of here.”

A pair of strong arms grasped her waist and pulled her away.

Another officer hauled SWAT guy to his feet.

“Sit rep on the shooter?” he asked one of the others.

“Deceased.”

SWAT guy, obviously the leader, motioned to the man holding Ashley’s arm and another officer standing by the window. “Stay alert. Assume a second shooter is still in here. Get her out while we clear the rest of the building.”

* * *

YELLOWCRIME-SCENEtape fluttered in the early-summer breeze, bringing with it the smell of impending rain. Ashley sat on one of the folding chairs the police had set up in the parking lot. Most of her coworkers had already been interviewed and had been allowed to leave. Ashley had been interviewed, too, but the detective who’d spoken to her had asked her to wait. She wasn’t sure why.

The dead—eight in all—were still inside the building as crime scene technicians took pictures of the carnage and documented what had happened. The wounded—only three had been shot and survived—had been taken to the hospital.

The company’s owner, Ron Gibson, stood talking with a couple of detectives about twenty feet away. The grief on his face reminded Ashley that he’d lost his only son today—Stanley. But Gibson was apparently a hero. He’d dragged one of the wounded out the exit before the police arrived, and he was going to be okay. The temp, whose name Ashley still couldn’t remember, was also going to recover. The bullet had only grazed her head.

Another gust of wind blew through, swirling Ashley’s hair. She pushed it out of her face and wished she had a ponytail holder with her. A shadow fell over her and she glanced up to see the SWAT officer who’d rescued her by throwing his knife at the shooter.

He’d shed the heavy body armor and vest with the big white letters on it marking him as SWAT. In dark blue dress pants and a white dress shirt, he could have been one of her coworkers, except that none of her coworkers were quite as muscular and fit-looking as this man. Then again, if he made his living wearing all that heavy equipment, she supposed the muscles were honestly earned.

He smiled and shook his head. “You didn’t hear anything I said, did you, Miss Parrish?”

“I’m sorry, no. I was...thinking. What did you say?”

He pulled another folding chair over and sat across from her. He held out his hand and she automatically took it.

“I’m Detective Dillon Gray. I know you’ve already been interviewed, but I wanted to ask you a few more questions. Are you up to it?”

She shook his hand, but when he mentioned asking questions, all she could think about was the knife sticking out of the shooter’s throat. She clutched his hand instead of letting go.