LITMIR.BIZ

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Karen? Kristen? Ashley had only met her once and couldn’t remember. The girl’s face was ghostly pale, her eyes wide with terror as she silently begged Ashley for help.

      Ashley’s stomach jumped as if she’d plunged down a steep drop on a roller coaster. The girl couldn’t be more than nineteen. Ashley had to help her. But how? Which cubicle was safer? Should she run to the girl, or have the girl run to her?

      She sucked in a breath. Oh, no. Spiky gray hair showed above a row of cubicles down a side aisle. The shooter. And he was heading straight toward the temp.

      Ashley frantically motioned for the girl to hide.

      The girl’s brow furrowed and she raised her hands in the air, not understanding what Ashley was trying to tell her.

      In a few more steps, the gunman would be able to see them both.

      “Go back,” Ashley mouthed, desperately pointing at the approaching shooter.

      He rounded the corner. Ashley ducked back behind the partitioned wall.

      A high-pitched scream echoed through the room, then abruptly stopped.

      She clamped her hand over her mouth. No, no, no.

      A shoe scraped across the carpet. Ashley froze. A swishing sound whispered through the air, as if someone had brushed up against one of the fabric-covered cubicle walls. Close.

      Too close.

      “Ma’am, the police are evaluating the situation,” the operator said through the phone in her monotone voice.

      Ashley quickly covered the receiver. Her pulse slammed in her ears as she waited, listened. Was the shooter the one who’d made that swishing noise? Had he heard the operator? Her hand shook as she gingerly hung up the phone. She couldn’t wait for the police anymore. If she didn’t do something, right now, she’d be as dead as Stanley Gibson.

      * * *

      DILLON GRAYCROUCHEDbeneaththe window, cradling his assault rifle. He and the rest of his six-man SWAT team waited for the green light to begin the rescue operation in the one-story office building of Gibson and Gibson Financial Services.

      Beside him, his friend since childhood, Chris Downing, watched the screen on his wristband, showing surveillance from the tiny scope he’d raised up to the window. “Casualties at three and five o’clock,” he whispered into the tiny mic attached to his helmet. “One more at eleven o’clock. No sign of a shooter.”

      Dillon’s earpiece crackled and his boss’s voice came on the line. “Witnesses indicate there could be two shooters. Descriptions inconsistent. Shooters are dressed in black body armor. Kill shot will be a headshot. They’re using handguns. No long guns or explosives reported.”

      “Do we have the go ahead to move in?” Dillon asked, inching closer to the door.

      “Negative. Still gathering intel. Hold your position.”

      His team looked to him for direction, their faces taut with frustration. They wanted to go in as badly as he did.

      “Do we have a count yet on how many civilians are inside?” Dillon asked his boss.

      “Negative,” Thornton replied. “Workers are still pulling into the parking lot after lunch. Impossible to know how many escaped and how many remain.”

      Meaning there could be dozens or more inside. Defenseless. Hiding under desks, in conference rooms, in closets, waiting, praying someone would help them. What chance did an unarmed office worker have against men with guns, picking them off like targets at a gun range?

      The stock of his rifle dug into Dillon’s clenched fist. The Destiny, Tennessee, police department was small and more accustomed to patrolling acres of farmland and gravel roads than suiting up in flak jackets and storming buildings. His SWAT team consisted of beat cops, desk jockeys and other detectives like him, but they’d all been hunting and shooting since they could walk. And they trained regularly, and hard, for this type of situation. What was the point of that training if they cowered and did nothing? How many civilians had died in the few minutes his team had been crouching beneath the windows? How many of those civilians were their own friends and neighbors?

      “The team is ready and willing to go. Strongly requesting permission to enter, sir.”

      “Negative,” Thornton replied. “Stand down, Detective Gray. Await further instructions.”

      Dillon cursed.

      Chris tapped his shoulder. “Movement on the east corner,” he whispered. “Appears to be a civilian. Belly crawling toward the exit.” His tortured gaze shot to Dillon. “Heavy blood trail.”

      Dillon closed his fist around the mic so his boss wouldn’t hear him as he addressed his team.

      “Chief Thornton ordered us to sit tight and wait. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of if you follow orders. Some of you have families to support. I don’t. If he fires me, so be it. But I’m not waiting one more minute while people die inside. I’m going in.”

      Every one of his teammates raised their thumbs, letting him know they were all in.

      He glanced at the only woman on the team, Donna Waters.

      “Don’t even say it,” she warned. “You’ve never been sexist before. Don’t start now. I’m not waiting outside while the guys get all the fun.”

      Dillon ruefully shook his head and held his fingers in the air. “We go in five, four—”

      “Gray, what are you doing?” Thornton demanded. “I told you to stand down. That’s an order.”

      “—one.” Dillon waved his hand in a forward rolling motion.

      Donna yanked the door open. Dillon ran inside, first as always, crouching down, swinging his rifle left to right, covering his team as they rushed in behind him.

      “Clear,” Dillon whispered, thankful his boss had shut up, leaving the airway free for communication among the team. When this was over, Thornton would give him hell, or fire him. But for now, the chief knew to butt out.

      Dillon pointed to the injured civilian trying to crawl to the door. The two closest men grabbed the injured man and carried him outside. Dillon gave Donna a signal to wait for the two men to return before beginning her search on the west side of the building, while he and the two men with him headed to the east side.

      The building formed a rectangle, with rows of six-foot-high cubicle walls divided in the middle by a line of glassed-in offices, bathrooms and conference rooms. Solid walls acted as firebreaks every twenty feet. The two teams would have to search and clear each section in a grid pattern before moving to the next.

      When he reached the first body, Dillon sucked in a quick breath. The man was only a casual acquaintance, but Dillon had shared math classes with him in high school. The shooter, or shooters, had gone for a head shot. The vic never had a chance.

      They continued on, finding two more casualties. A scratching sound whispered from the next aisle. Dillon crouched down and signaled his men to approach in a flanking maneuver from each end of the aisle. When they were in position, he held up five fingers, counting down. Four. Three. He rushed into the cubicle in front of him, silently continuing the countdown, as he knew his men would do. He climbed onto the countertop that formed a desk in the cubicle. When the count reached zero, he jumped to his feet and aimed his rifle over the top of the wall.

      At the same time, his men rushed into the ends of the aisle to prevent escape. The scratching stopped. A young woman lay half in and half out of a cubicle, her face an ashen-gray color, with blood running down the side of her head. Her fingernails dug into the carpet, probably the scratching sound they’d heard.

      Dillon stood guard over the top of the wall. Chris hoisted the young woman in his arms while the other man covered him. Together they retreated toward the exit, with Dillon watching over them until they were safely out the door.

      Two civilians

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