only five years from turning fifty, Max Zirinsky could bench-press his weight with ease. Dark haired with cool green eyes, he was the kind of cop who belonged at the top. Quick with a joke, but deadly serious when it came to fighting crime, Max had the respect of everyone in law enforcement, with the exception, perhaps, of the many criminals he’d locked away.
“She’s cool. Staying put until one of your guys can reach her.”
“What about Mrs. Nelson?”
Adam shook his head. “Not good. Faith’s trained in CPR, but she can’t get near her until we stop the shooter.”
He had noticed Lorraine Nelson’s chest rising and falling, but otherwise had seen very little movement. She wasn’t young. She needed medical attention and she needed it now.
Max clapped Adam on the shoulder. “Ms. Lawton won’t have to put herself in danger. I’m suiting up one of the paramedics in SWAT gear and sending her out with Flint. He’s pulling out a bulletproof shield from the riot gear. Thinks he can angle it and keep them safe until they can determine Mrs. Nelson’s condition.”
Adam nodded, not the least bit surprised that in minutes, Zirinsky had the situation as near to under control as possible. He wondered if the chief was going to send him out of the building while the rest of the team worked this operation. Courage Bay had a crack Incident Command System. With the city on the ocean, surrounded by mountains and sitting on a fault line, the Courage Bay community had to be ready for emergencies. As chief of detectives, Adam wasn’t usually involved unless the emergency was crime-related. Like this one. But snipers were SWAT’s business, not his. At least until the danger passed.
Still, he had a personal interest in not only bringing Faith back inside safely, but also catching the sniper alive and making sure he paid for his crimes. He’d had enough of slippery criminals today. He wanted to make sure this arrest went down by the book—and that was a job for a top cop.
Max engaged his walkie-talkie. “Johnson, where are the blueprints?”
“Prints?” Adam asked.
The voice on the other end of the walkie-talkie answered. “We’re still looking, Chief. Someone misfiled them.”
Max let out a stream of curses from between clenched teeth. “I need the prints, Johnson. There’s got to be another way onto the third floor!”
The walkie-talkie crackled again. This time, the voice belonged to Dan Egan, the fire chief.
“Fire’s out, Max. Smoke is thick, but the fans are working wonders. Send your men up.”
Max grinned, his gaze sharpening at the prospect of catching the shooter. “Two teams are on the way. One for the shooter, the other for evacuation.”
At his signal, the teams stormed the stairwell. Adam’s adrenaline surged through his veins, and he bounced on the balls of his feet. Damn, the SWAT guys couldn’t screw this up. He wanted this sicko caught, not killed, though he’d accept killed if that would keep Lorraine and Faith and anyone else trapped on the ground safe. Still, if Adam were up there, he could try to control the situation.
“Max—” Adam began, but knew the minute he caught the twinkle in his chief’s eyes that he wouldn’t have to finish his question.
“Grab a Kevlar and take the rear position. You supervise the arrest only, got it, Guthrie? I don’t need you down, too.”
Adam dashed to the neat pile of supplies by the door and snatched a bulletproof vest. He shrugged out of his jacket and slipped into the protection, checking his weapon and extra clip before saluting the chief on his way to the action.
Once out of sight, he fisted his hands and let out a low-key “Yes!”
He’d wanted to snare a bad guy today. And he might still get his chance.
F AITH NEARLY JUMPED FOR JOY the minute she saw the SWAT team easing toward her. One held a large black shield with a clear slot to see through. The other carried a medical kit. Thank God! Lorraine, who’d just started coming around, was going to be treated.
“They’re coming, Lorraine,” she said, sounding as encouraging as she felt. “Just hold on. Don’t move. The SWAT guy has a shield. He’ll block you, keep you safe. Can you hear me, Lorraine?”
A low groan was the only response, but that was good enough for Faith. She folded her hands together and repeated another litany of prayers for Lorraine. She’d never felt half so spiritual as she did today. And though she couldn’t do anything for George, if Lorraine lived, she might sleep when night finally fell.
Time seemed to pass in slow motion. Days seemed to elapse before the SWAT team reached Lorraine, months before the paramedic had a diagnosis: heart attack. Lorraine needed immediate medical help, but the paramedic couldn’t administer treatment out in the open.
“Base, this is Mauro,” the man with the shield said into the radio strapped to his shoulder. “We need a gurney. Now!”
No response. Faith’s stomach dropped to her knees.
“Base, this is Mauro!”
His radio wasn’t working. He gestured toward the doors, and in a split second, two more SWAT guys burst out—two shields in front of them, a gurney pulled behind. They didn’t know the precise angle the shooter was aiming from—for all they knew he could still shoot them in the head. Faith held her breath, willing Lorraine’s rescuers to succeed.
As soon as the gurney was secure, the two new SWAT members formed a wall with the shields, two on the ground and one angled to protect from shots from above. The paramedic worked furiously, with the second SWAT guy assisting her in lifting Lorraine onto the cart.
Suddenly, a succession of gunshots rang out from above. Faith screamed and ducked, folding herself into a tiny ball, watching from beneath her arm as bullets slammed into the limestone, random, unfocused, splintering the plaza so that fragments bit at her cheek and hands. The SWAT team scrambled toward the exit, the bulkiest man barking orders in rapid succession. The paramedic seemed completely focused on Lorraine, not realizing that she had stepped out from behind the barricades. A bullet broke through their moving shield and struck the paramedic in the arm. Blood spurted as she yelped in pain, but the leader dragged her over Lorraine’s legs and, pushing the wheeled gurney quickly, managed their escape.
Then all went silent. Deadly silent. The kind of silent that creeps beneath the skin and chills to the bone. No sirens. No gunshots. No voices. Nothing but her own ragged gasps for breath. Faith fought the hyperventilation that would occur if she didn’t pull herself together. She held her breath, counted to ten, blew the air out slowly and then began again until she achieved a halfway decent calm.
George Yube was dead. Lorraine was critical. Now the paramedic had suffered a gunshot wound to the arm, if not worse. Faith blinked tears out of her eyes, trusting that the same police department she’d crucified in the courtroom would find a way to end this nightmare.
CHAPTER THREE
A S SOON AS THE SWAT detail cleared the smoke from the fire that had raged through the stairwell, Adam tore off his oxygen mask. His shoes squeaked as he walked across the hall, the soles sucking up the moisture from the fire sprinklers. Dan Egan had disengaged the automatic waterworks, but the damage was done. As the SWAT team moved stealthily in front of him, he stopped and kicked off his loafers. He wouldn’t have much traction, but he’d have the element of surprise—if the shooter was still on the loose.
They’d exited the stairwell on the fourth floor. A second SWAT team had scaled the roof and reported that the sniper was not there, nor was there any evidence he’d ever been this high up. The stairwell from the roof into the building had been blocked by a rusted-out panel from a colossal air-conditioning unit, leaving the teams sent up from the lobby to find the sniper. They split up, the first team proceeding to the fifth floor, the second filtering onto the third, with Adam bringing up the rear of the final group, which exited on the fourth. Max reported