Elizabeth Heiter - Bodyguard With A Badge

He’d killed a man in front of his family, but it meant the firefighters had been able to enter the house. They’d gotten the wife and son out, alive and amazingly unharmed. Except for the nightmares they’d both surely have for years, too.

Beside his bed, a persistent buzzing caught his attention and he realized he’d been receiving texts. He swiped a hand over his forehead and grabbed the work cell phone he always kept close.

It was a triple-eight call from his boss at the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team, where he’d worked for the past four years as a sniper. Triple eight meant an emergency.

Of course, at HRT, they were already part of what the FBI called their Critical Incident Response Group. So no call was low priority. But triple eight was as high as it got.

It meant no time for even a two-minute shower, so he tossed aside the boxers he’d been wearing and traded them for cargos and a T-shirt, yanking up his flight suit over it. His FBI-issued rifle and the rest of the gear he carried on a mission were in a lockbox in the trunk of his sedan.

Andre double-timed it down the stairs of his little house and hopped in his car, still trying to shake off his dream, and hoping it wasn’t an omen for what was to come today.

The information in the text was minimal, but it was enough to get his adrenaline going for a different reason. They were going to a hostage call at an office building not far from where he worked at Quantico. Multiple gunmen, multiple hostages.

At 7:00 a.m., the sun was just beginning to rise, and it instantly took him back to the dream he’d just left, those moments outside the house, frantic to get to Marcos. He slapped his siren on the roof, punched down on the gas and wove around a long line of cars. “Mind on the mission,” he told himself.

He dialed his partner, Scott Delacorte, and soon Scott’s gruff voice filled his car. “We don’t know much. The gunmen are in a marketing company office up on the third floor. Employees there start early and leave early, to avoid some of the rush-hour traffic. So we could have a lot of hostages, but we’re hoping none of the other companies in that building have started the day yet. Police are holding the scene.”

“Any news on what the gunmen are after? Any communications? Do we know if they’ve fired shots?” Was this a hostage-taking situation or an active shooter?

“The call came in to 911 ten minutes ago from a secretary who managed to hide in the storage room. She told the operator there were multiple armed men—at least three—and at the time of the call, they hadn’t started shooting. She thought they were searching for someone.”

That might be good or bad. Good if the person they were after hadn’t arrived yet; maybe the gunmen would leave, and HRT could nab them on the way out. Bad if the gunmen had a specific target they wanted to take out. Once they did, they might eliminate anyone else in their way.

Still, the setup was strange. A single gunman searching for a particular victim—maybe a spouse or stalking target—wasn’t that unusual. But multiple gunmen, after one target? That was overkill. What single target at a small, independently owned marketing company would warrant that kind of firepower? It didn’t quite fit.

“That’s odd,” was all Andre said aloud.

“Agreed. But the secretary’s in the storage room. Who knows how well she’s pegged the situation?” The screaming siren from Scott’s end stopped. “I’m here. Gonna set up and get on the scope. Northwest corner, we’ve got woods, a nice trail that actually leads right out the back door of the office building and up a little hill. The whole thing is pretty hidden. I’m looking through my binoculars right now and I see a good sniper perch about a quarter mile up. How far out are you?”

“One minute.”

“Make it faster,” Scott said and cut the connection.

Andre pushed the gas pedal down to the floor, blaring his horn over the siren and whipping around the few drivers obnoxious enough not to get out of his way. Thirty seconds later, he was at the office complex.

He flashed his badge to the police officers stationed at the entrance to the complex, which was nestled in the woods. Thankfully it was off the beaten track enough that they shouldn’t have to worry about the potential collateral of the pedestrians and gawkers they’d get if they were closer to the city.

The cops let him pass, and he flew into the parking lot, screeching to a stop next to his boss’s big green SUV. He yanked his gear out of the trunk as his boss gave him the rundown.

“We don’t know much more than what Scott already gave you,” Froggy told him. The guy had been a navy SEAL before joining the FBI, and the nickname was a humorous nod to his past. “Go join Scott and get me some more intel.”

“You got it.” Andre slung his rifle over his back, slipped his gear bag over his shoulder and slid his Glock pistol out of the holster he’d put on while he drove. He popped his earbud in, and turned on the bone mic at his neck. It nestled against his voice box, so all he’d need to do was speak and his whole team could hear him. Then, he was on the move.

He ran around the corner of the office building, Glock ready in case one of the gunmen decided to try to rabbit out the back. Then he spotted the half-hidden trail Scott had mentioned and jogged onto it, increasing his pace even as the incline up the hill got more and more steep. Every minute counted for the hostages inside.

“I cleared you a spot,” Scott said, not taking his eyes off the scope as Andre settled into the patch of dirt his partner indicated.

Andre dropped his gear beside him and set up his rifle, dialing in the specifics for wind and altitude that Scott read off to him. And then he was peering through his own rifle scope, into the third floor of the office building.

He scanned from left to right across the whole floor, taking in the situation. A gunman stood in the front room, a Bluetooth receiver in his ear and tattoos climbing out the top of his shirt. He clutched a semiautomatic pistol with both hands, but he kept checking the paper he held crumpled against the stock of his gun. On the floor around him were eight men and women in business clothes. Some held on to one another, two were in tears, and they were all avoiding the gunman’s gaze as though he’d already warned them not to look at him. But no one appeared to be injured. Not yet.

Andre pulled back up to the gunman, dialing in a little closer, trying to see what was on the paper that was so interesting. He was speaking angrily, but Andre didn’t think he was talking to the hostages.

“Phone’s on,” Scott said, seeming to read Andre’s mind.

They’d been partners for two years now, and Scott had become practically a third brother to Andre. Half the time on missions, they didn’t need words at all. “We know who he’s talking to?”

“I think it’s the second gunman.”

Andre swung farther right and found the other guy. He, too, had a cell phone, clipped to his waist, with an earphone in one ear. He held a semiautomatic, and he kept glaring down at a piece of paper as he wrenched open one door after the next, clearly searching for someone.

He pulled open another door and aimed his weapon at the woman cowering inside on the floor, surrounded by stacks of paper and printer cartridges. She yanked her hands up over her head, a phone dropping to the floor.

“Shit,” Scott said as the gunman’s grip shifted and Andre was able to zoom in closer and get a glimpse of what was on the paper he held.

“It’s not her he’s looking for,” Andre said, keying his mic so the rest of the team could hear. “This guy’s carrying a picture of a woman. Mid-to late-twenties, blondish-brown hair.” A beautiful woman, with a sad smile. Not an easy face to miss. “She’s not one of the hostages in the front room.”