Really?
I felt the reassuring weight of the Glock 19 pressed against the small of my back — concealed inside my inside-the-waistband holster, appendix carry.
One in the chamber.
Safety disengaged.
My fingers itched.
A single smooth draw.
Muzzle aligned. Press trigger.
Center mass — if I wanted to play safe.
Headshot — if I wanted to be precise.
One second. Maybe less.
It would be clean.
Fast. Final.
But even as the urge surged through me, training kicked in harder.
Bureau protocol over instinct.
Lethal force required imminent threat.
Right now?
He wasn’t attacking. He wasn’t reaching for a weapon.
He was talking.
Executing him like this would destroy everything I had built over the past four years.
My badge. My career. My freedom.
And worst of all — it would turn me into exactly what he is.
A monster.
So I forced my hands to remain relaxed at my sides.
Still. Controlled.
My jaw locked.
“Open this fucking door,” I said coldly, “and let me speak to my sister.”
He didn’t move.
He didn’t even look toward the bunker door.
He kept his eyes on me.
“Open it,” I repeated, voice rising. “Open the fucking door!”
