Chapter 1
Ben Garrison
The hallway narrowed ahead of us, a choke point with a ninety-degree turn at the end. Tactical lights cut white arcs through the drifting smoke, and I could feel Jolly pressed between my legs—every muscle in his body coiled, vibrating with controlled energy. He knew what was coming. Seven years of this, and he still lived for the work.
We moved in a stack—single file, tight to the wall, each officer’s hand on the shoulder of the man ahead. The formation kept us compact, reduced our profile, let us flow through doorways without tripping over each other.
My left hand rested on Jolly’s harness instead of the officer ahead of me. Right hand on my holstered sidearm, ready to draw the moment the shield moved. Martinez was point, his bulk filling the doorway, shield up and steady. Behind me, four officers held the line, breathing measured despite the chaos erupting from the room at the end of the corridor.
Donovan Hughes’s voice crackled through my earpiece from his position with the breach team on the opposite side of the building. “West corridor clear. Moving to contact point.”
Having him here made the job easier. Two tours in Afghanistan together, and we’d developed shorthand that didn’t need words. He wouldn’t be running a dog on this contract—his last K9 partner had retired six months before he’d left the Army, and he hadn’t bonded with a new one yet—but his tactical expertise and K9 knowledge made him invaluable.
“Police! Put the weapons down, and come out with your hands up!”
The command echoed from the breach team—they’d hit the building from the west entrance, working toward the same corner suite from the opposite side. For a moment, silence. Then the sharp crack of gunfire, rapid and close.
“Shots fired! Shots fired! They’re shooting!”
More shots. The breach team had made contact, pinned down somewhere on the other side of the suite. Our job just changed—we weren’t backup anymore. We were the second angle, the pressure from the flank that would force the suspects to divide their attention.
“Barricade in the corner office! At least two shooters!”
Martinez, the officer in front of me holding the ballistic shield, advanced. I moved with him, keeping Jolly centered in my stance. The dog’s tail was rigid, his focus absolute. His head tracked every sound, his nose working, pulling in the scent of suspects we couldn’t see yet.
The hallway walls were close enough to touch. Paint peeling, water stains spreading brown across the drywall. Bare bulbs overhead, half of them dead. We’d entered through the east stairwell, worked through a maze of small offices on the first floor, and now this main corridor stretchedahead of us toward the large corner suite where the suspects had holed up.
“Moving!”
Martinez took three steps. I matched him.
That was when the round hit.
Martinez screamed—a raw, guttural sound that filled the narrow space as he went down, his shield clattering against the concrete. He grabbed his thigh, rolling onto his side, still screaming.
“Man down!” I grabbed the shield before it could slide away, planted it between us and the threat. “Medic!”
Another shot pinged off the shield. The impact vibrated through my arm.
“Get him out!” I shouted over my shoulder. Two officers grabbed Martinez by the vest and dragged him back, his boots scraping against the floor. His screaming faded to sharp, bitten-off curses.
Now I was point.
The shield wasn’t meant for me. It should have been another officer carrying it so I could focus on my job of handling Jolly.With no room to maneuver another person to hand off the shield to, it was what stood between Jolly and the next round, so I held it.
“You ready, boy?”
He answered with a low whine, his ears pricked forward, locked on the barricade at the end of the hall. Twenty feet, maybe. The suspects were dug in—I could see a pile of overturned furniture, a desk tipped on its side, filing cabinets stacked in front of it.
There were two of them. One crouched behind the desk, weapon up. The other throwing debris, trying to draw fire while his partner lined up shots.
Incoming rounds slapped against the front of my shield.
“Moving!” I drew my sidearm, angled the pistol over thetop of the shield, and squeezed off three rounds toward the barricade. Suppressive fire—not aimed to hit, aimed to make them duck.
Jolly pressed harder against my leg. He wanted to go. Every fiber of his training, every instinct, screamed at him to engage. I felt it in the tension of his body, the barely contained trembling.
Not yet.
