Romero’s face loses some of his intensity, returning to the more sarcastic visage he normally wears. One brow arches curiously, and his mouth bunches to the corner. “Look at you, Motherfucking Teresa.” He shifts his gaze to the end of the bench where my mentor sits. “We found your replacement of team bleeding heart. You’re good to retire.”
I flip Drake off.
Fortunately, the interaction seems to have snapped Fowler out of his head. “Fuck me.Nothing checks your shit like Hayes coming in with warm fuzzies.”Rolling his shoulders back, he wobbles his head to shake off the jitters physically. “I got this. I’m good.”
One last shimmy to ward off the nerves, then he widens his eyes at me. He mouths, “Thank you.”
A filament of warmth flickers and expands through my chest.
Shit. Is that how Andrews feels all the time?
The comms crackle. “We are green light to proceed. Alpha team, take out the gate in 3-2-1.”
We jostle as the van shifts into gear, rapidly accelerating. My heart thunders, shooting adrenaline through my veins. All my senses come into focus.
The bang-boom-crash of the other unit slamming through the gate brings a sick grin to my face. At some point in my career, I want to be the driver who gets toHey, Kool-Aid!my way through a barrier.
Gunfire rings out, growing louder as we tear through the yard behind the other vans. Bullets ping off the vehicle’s solid metal sides, making some of the agents flinch.
I stay still, unflinching. My grip on my rifle is firm.
Updates pour through our comms rapidly as the scene unfolds. Sounds like the snipers are having a field day picking off STK shooters.
“First roof shooter down.”
“Northeast corner down.”
“Three on widow’s walk down.”
“Front porch. Got one.”
“And two.”
“Curtain movement. Right of front door.”
Chase jumps in, responding to that last sniper. “Don’t fire into the house yet.”
“Copy.” He quickly tacks on, “Third front porch shooter down.”
“Another on the roof,” another sniper announces. “Got him.”
“Front door clear for entry.”
“Rear clear.”
Chase orders, “Alpha and Bravo, go for breach.”
Our vehicle comes to a jerky stop behind Alpha Team’s van. We file out, guns drawn and heads lowered.
Ahead of us, Alpha Team rams through the front door and quickly pours into the house. Via the main comm channel, Bravo’s team leader announces their simultaneous entry through the back door.
“Federal agents. Drop your weapons. Hands up.”
Multiple voices echo variations of the warning.
Gunfire starts instantly.
These fuckers won’t surrender.
