My driver pulls to the edge of the scene and stops at an angle that leaves a clear path for emergency vehicles, the engine idling while he scans the mirrors and the street ahead. I step out into the cold, the wind pushing under my coat. The officers hold their positions and leave the center of the street to us. One of them gives a short nod as I pass, then turns his attention back to the barricade.
Leo braces against the SUV, one knee bent, his jacket pushed down around his arm while blood runs dark along his bare shoulder. His face has gone pale, jaw tight, the strain visible even though he’s doing everything he can to stay upright.
Karp is ten feet away, one forearm pressed across an attacker’s throat, pinning him flat to the asphalt. The man’s breath comesin thin, uneven pulls, and his eyes roll as he tries to swallow against the pressure. Karp’s posture doesn’t change, his stance firm and patient, as if this is simply where he belongs until I decide otherwise.
A paramedic in a navy Charlotte EMS jacket tends to Leo, one gloved hand pressing gauze against the wound at his shoulder while the other readies fresh bandaging from an open kit at his feet. The entry wound sits high on the shoulder near the joint, and the exit is lower and misaligned, which tells me the bullet passed through without destroying the arm entirely, though it came close.
The paramedic finishes securing a fresh pressure bandage over the wound, taping it down firmly. The stretcher waits a few feet away. When I step in, he gives us space without being asked.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
“They took her,” Leo answers, his breath thinning as he leans against the SUV.
“Details.” My back teeth clench together hard enough that I feel it in my temples before I force them apart.
“White van. No plates. Four total. Two at the doors, two covering the blind side. They moved on cue.”
My hand closes once into a fist at my side before I release it.
“Walk me through it.”
“They fired first,” Leo answers. He draws a slow breath through his teeth, managing the pain. “They didn’t break formation. They repositioned and went straight for the rear door. They weren’t there to trade shots.”
“They were there to extract,” I note.
“Yes. They wanted her intact.”
I go completely still.
Leo holds my eyes. “She fought. She didn’t freeze.”
I make him wait, adjusting the cuff at my wrist before I answer.
“She doesn’t freeze,” I tell him quietly. “She assesses and then she moves.”
Leo nods once, satisfied. “They weren’t expecting that,” he adds.
“No,” I confirm. “They underestimated her.”
I nod once to the paramedics, and they move in without another word. Leo allows them to guide him onto the stretcher. For a second, pain breaks through his composure before he locks it down again. They load him into the ambulance and close the doors. The vehicle pulls away, the siren quiet until it clears the patrol cars at the end of the block.
I watch it go until the sound fades. Only then do I turn toward Karp.
The attacker’s cheek is pinned against the asphalt, the skin scraped raw where he hit the ground. His pupils are wide, and his hands are trapped beneath him at an angle that makes breathing difficult, which is the point. Karp looks up when I approach.
“He’s breathing,” he says.
“For now,” I reply.
Karp adjusts his forearm a fraction, not easing the pressure, just repositioning to keep the man conscious enough to speak.
I crouch beside the attacker, close enough that he can see me clearly, close enough that I don’t need to raise my voice.
“You’re going to answer in complete sentences,” I tell him, keeping my tone even. “If you can’t manage that, you’ll answer in fragments and we’ll fill in the rest without you.”
The man coughs, the sound wet and strained. His eyes dart toward the officers and then away, understanding he won’t be rescued by them.
“Who ordered it?” I ask.
