PROLOGUE
DECEMBER 15
FBI Special Agent Shane Livingstone calmly straddled the metal bench on the outside of the MD530 Little Bird helicopter as the pilot buzzed so close to the ocean Shane swore he could see his own reflection in the surface of the ebony water. One of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team’s K9 members lay on the floor behind him, leaning out of the open door near enough that his drool dripped onto Shane’s exposed neck.
At least it was warm, unlike the sea spray that felt like bullets of pure ice piercing his flesh.
Good times.
Adrenaline buzzed his system and he grinned. This method of transportation was a thousand times preferable to that of the last training mission when Gold team had accessed a remote coastal installation using Rigid-hull Inflatable Boats. They’d been dropped into crashing surf that had been nut-cracking cold and rough as the wildest rollercoaster, especially fun when carrying sixty pounds of gear that seemed to weigh ten times as much when wet.
This current infil was positively first-class luxury by comparison. Shane’s fellow Gold team Echo assaulters were all revved up and ready to go. These men were more than his colleagues. They were his friends, his brothers. And, unlike last time, this wasn’t a training mission.
According to the tactical operation briefing, five white nationalist terrorists, who were vocal online supporters of long-dead cult-leader David Hines, had taken over a courtroom and were threatening to kill everyone inside the courthouse if they and the defendant weren’t allowed to walk free.
Never gonna happen.
Three of the attackers had military training, as did the defendant. The other two were self-proclaimed “militia.” Wannabes with dicks the size of Shane’s little finger and brains to match.
These particular whackos had already shot dead the court reporter and were threatening to shoot another hostage every hour until their demands were met. So, even though the Crisis Negotiation Unit was on scene and negotiators were attempting to talk the bad guys into coming out, everyone inside the FBI knew that Judgment Day was coming.
But probably not in the way the tangos envisioned with their corrupt version of Christian values and morals Satan would get a kick out of.
The signal to “get ready” came through his earpiece. The pilot pulled up the nose of the machine and the terrain beneath Shane switched from inky sea to dense shadowy trees then houses, before morphing into taller buildings in the downtown area that the pilots navigated around with apparent ease.
They were close now. The pilot climbed in altitude before descending rapidly and hovering over what must be the roof of the courthouse. HRT’s second helicopter was barely visible in the darkness.
These machines were quiet compared to most but, even so, the FBI were trying to deflect the hostage takers’ attention away from what might be happening on the roof. Shane recognized one of the FBI negotiators who was helping disguise HRT’s arrival by talking non-stop on the bullhorn. A police cruiser chose that exact moment to turn on the siren and speed away from the courthouse as another distraction.
“Go,” came the order over the comms.
Shane unclipped his safety strap and threw down a chem light as heavy ropes were deployed onto the roof.
Thick gloves stopped his flesh from being ripped off his hands as he wrapped his lower legs around the cable and threw himself off the side of the chopper before fast-roping twenty feet to the flat roof. He took up a defensive position with his H&K 416 D10RS carbine while Cowboy, also now on the roof, released the dog from his harness. The pilot held steady in the darkness as the rest of Shane’s seven-man team, plus kit, descended with rapid efficiency.
In a matter of seconds, the helicopters were flying away, someone inside gathering up the ropes.
Shane grabbed his breaching ram as the assaulters stacked up at the door. Shane stepped forward to take care of that obstacle after Cowboy checked to make sure the door was, in fact, locked. Shane much preferred explosives or his modified Remington M870 loaded with breaching rounds but today they were using the ram on this door because that’s what acting Gold team leader Payne Novak had ordered. The closer they could get before the hostiles knew for sure they were coming, the more chance they had of saving innocent lives.
Shane didn’t think knocking a door off its hinges with a breacher was much quieter than blowing one off its hinges with a slap shot but, having served in the Green Berets prior to becoming an FBI agent, Shane knew when to follow orders and when to beg for forgiveness later.
Gold team’s other assaulter unit, Charlie, had been dropped on the opposite side of the roof and were preparing to abseil down the outside of the building and enter the courtroom via the windows. HRT snipers had the building surrounded, ready to take out any visible cultists as soon as the signal was given. Shane’s Echo assaulters were to work their way down the building, floor by floor, and neutralize any bad guys who’d fled the courtroom in a last desperate bid to make a stand or attempt a daring escape.
Shane took a deep breath in, held it, then released it. Repeating the process as his eyes scanned for possible danger. Deliberately calming his body, settling the adrenaline that wanted to ramp up his heart rate and influence his physiology. This natural response was why they trained all the time. A firefight was less shocking when you walked into one every single day.
Cowboy waited for Charlie unit to get into position to begin their rappel. As soon as Charlie unit reported they were ready, everything changed. Tension snapped through the air like static.
Game time.
They communicated using hand signals. Sound carried and they didn’t speak on an op unless they absolutely had to.
As planned, it went completely dark as the City cut the power to the block. HRT immediately activated their night-vision goggles. Cowboy counted down with his fingers and, with a single precision strike, Shane slammed the metal ram into the door beside the deadbolt. The wood around the lock shattered.
He stepped back, swapping his ram for his carbine as he followed his team inside and down the stairwell.
Intel had all the hostage takers in a second-floor courtroom, but things changed fast in a dynamic situation and it wasn’t always easy to tell the bad guys from the good guys using thermal imaging or radar. Quickly reaching the fourth floor, the team swept into the main office area with a blast of flash bangs and godawful noise and overwhelming firepower that should make any sane individual shove their empty hands high in the air while simultaneously pissing their pants.
Holiday decorations looked garishly out of place under the circumstances and the inflatable Santa in the corner almost earned himself a double tap when he floated back-and-forth.
Thankfully no one shot it.
The press loved nothing better than to crucify law enforcement and while Shane agreed with some of what was said, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park figuring out good guys from bad in these kinds of conditions.
They didn’t find anyone, which suggested the tangos had rounded up everyone in the building earlier. Like all the operators, Shane moved in a smooth, slightly crouched gait. It kept his aim steady while allowing him to cover ground quickly and silently.
Off the main office area was a series of rooms down a long narrow corridor. Shane was at the front now and Echo assaulters swiftly cleared three rooms before finding another locked door. He swapped the carbine for the ram again as the team lined up either side of the barrier. Suddenly, Shane paused, shook his head and pointed to the wall instead. Something didn’t feel right and the need for silence had long been replaced by the use of speed and overwhelming force. Doorways and elevators were always the most dangerous places in a building, followed closely by stairwells and corridors. His sixth sense was telling him this doorway was either a storage room no one ever used, or a deathtrap.