Or realizing he's trapped. The fifth floor is locked down, security is converging, and his only exits are blocked.
"Copy that. We're entering the building now."
My team and I move through the hospital entrance in formation. Staff members scatter, security directs us toward the stairwells. We take the north stairs fast, weapons ready.
Third floor. Fourth floor. I can hear voices above—security guards, someone shouting orders.
We reach the fourth-floor landing. Briggs is surrounded by hospital security, but he hasn't dropped his weapon yet. His back is pressed against the wall, gun raised but not aimed at anyone specific. Sweat runs down his face. His eyes are wild, jumping between threats.
"Federal agents!" I announce, weapon trained center mass. "Drop the gun now."
Briggs' eyes find mine. Recognition flashes across his face, followed by pure hatred. "You." The word comes out like a curse. "You ruined everything."
"Drop. The. Gun." I keep my voice level, authoritative. There's no room for negotiation in the tone.
"You don't understand." His gun hand trembles slightly. It's adrenaline or fear, hard to tell. "They'll kill me if I don't deliver. You think federal prison is the worst thing that can happen?"
"I think you have about five seconds to put that weapon down before this ends badly for you."
"It already ended badly." His laugh is brittle, edges into hysteria. "The second that doctor started asking questions, it was over. We were dead men walking."
The gun swings slightly toward the security guards. Not aimed, not yet, but close enough that my finger shifts on the trigger. Sullivan tenses beside me. Garcia repositions, looking for a clean shot if this goes south.
"Nobody has to die today," I say. "But you need to make a choice. Right now."
For a second, I think he might actually do it. Might swing that weapon around, force us to drop him. His eyes have that glassy quality of someone who's already decided they're dead.
Then Gwen's voice cuts through my earpiece, calm and clinical as if she's calling out vitals in the OR. "Thatcher, he's got a finger on the trigger. Two security guards in potential line of fire if he shoots."
She's still watching. Still helping. Still keeping her head while mine wants to calculate kill shots and collateral damage.
"I've got it," I say quietly, just for her.
Her response is immediate. "I know you do."
I refocus on Briggs, read his body language, watch for the tell that'll indicate his next move. His weight shifts. His gun hand wavers.
"Last chance," I say. "Put it down, walk out of here alive. See a lawyer, cut a deal, live to fight another day. Or don't, and we all know how this ends."
Briggs' hand wavers. He looks at the security guards pressing closer now that backup has arrived, at Sullivan flanking left with perfect tactical positioning, at Garcia moving right to cut off any escape route, at me straight ahead with a clear center-mass shot.
Nowhere to go. No way out. No options left.
His weapon clatters to the floor.
The sound echoes in the stairwell, final and absolute. The tension breaks like a snapped wire.
"On the ground, hands behind your head!" I bark.
He complies, movements jerky and defeated. Sullivan moves in fast, cuffs him with the same efficiency he's demonstrated in a hundred training scenarios and a dozen real-world operations. Garcia secures the weapon, clears it, bags it for evidence. Hospital security backs off, letting us take custody of the suspect and the scene.
It's done. Garrison and Briggs are both in custody, the primary suspects secured.
I key my comms. "Gwen, we're clear. Briggs is in custody. Everyone's safe."
Her exhale of relief comes through clearly. "Thank god. I'm still watching you on the cameras, by the way. Nice takedown."
"Couldn't have done it without your eyes on those feeds."
