The way some women felt about that perfect little black-dress-and-heels ensemble—ready for anything, able to handle themselves, bring it on—Lillian Muir felt about her SWAT cargo pants, combat boots and tactical vest.
The heavy clothing and gear she wore might have felt burdensome at one time on her five-two, one-hundred-pound frame, but she had long since adjusted. Now she almost felt more comfortable with the extra thirty pounds weighing on her than she did with it off. The weight was a comfort. A friend.
Her HK MP5 9mm submachine gun rested against her shoulder, just grazing her chin. Her fingers curled gently around it as she moved through the silent winter air of this Colorado night. A shotgun strapped around her back and a Glock pistol low on one hip provided further assurance she could handle what was ahead.
More than a pair of high heels ever would.
And what was ahead was pissing her the hell off. A man—a father—holding his ex-wife and their two children hostage at gunpoint.
“Bulldog One, status.”
Lillian tapped the button that allowed her to speak into the communication system attached to her ear under her helmet. “Approaching back door, TC.”
“Roger that. Hold for entry.” One of the team’s newest—and temporary—members, Philip Carnell, was acting as Tactical Command. Carnell wasn’t the team’s usual TC and his presence added to Lillian’s unease about the mission. Not that Carnell wasn’t brilliant when it came to planning and calling the shots. He was. Had an IQ of about a million and was able to process tactical information and advantages faster than anyone Lillian had ever seen. His mind was like a damn computer.
But he wasn’t part of the usual team. And moreover, he was pretty bitter about that.
They were shorthanded from recent attacks by criminal mastermind Damien Freihof over the past few months. Team members had been hurt and even killed as they battled one assault after another. Explosions. Bullets through windows. Sliced throats. Even assailants at weddings. Freihof had made it his mission in life to wage war on Omega Sector.
Lillian herself had been injured in a mission just two weeks ago, shrapnel from an explosion catching her in the shoulder. She ignored the slight discomfort now. She had bigger things to worry about.
“Bulldog Two, report status,” Carnell said.
“I have a visual on the suspect. Single tango. He’s pacing. Three hostages. Mom and two kids. All in the kitchen.” Bulldog Two’s voice was a little too high, too excited. Another person that damn sure wasn’t part of the normal elite Omega Sector SWAT team. Damn Damien Freihof and his mole inside Omega.
Lillian ignored that discomfort for now, too.
“I have a shot. Repeat, I have a shot,” Bulldog Two said.
Lillian held her tongue. New Kid wasn’t her problem.
“Negative, Bulldog Two. Hold your position,” Carnell told him.
“I want to take this bastard out,” the trainee guy said again. What was his name? Paul?
“Hold, Bulldog Two.” This time it was team leader Derek Waterman on the comm unit. He was also out in the darkness surrounding the house.
Lillian’s lips pursed. “Derek, request channel change.”
“Roger that. Go to channel three, Bulldog One.”
Lillian clicked the dial that turned the comm device to a channel so she and the team leader could talk without anyone else listening.
“Go, Lillian,” Derek said.
“We going to have a problem with Newbie?”
“His name is Saul. Saul Poniard.”
Generally Saul was a good guy. Friendly, surfer-boy looks with a ready smile. He was also pretty excitable, which might have been the reason he was turned down for final SWAT training multiple times. The only reason he was here now was the injuries on the team.
Lillian sighed. “I just don’t want him shooting those kids’ dad in front of them.”
“Roger that,” Derek said. “No deadly force unless we have no other options. TC knows that. Carnell won’t make that call unless there are no other options and things are escalating.”
“I know that. You know that. Just want to make sure New Kid knows that.”
Derek grimaced. “Don’t worry. I’ve got him under thumb. I’ll pull him out if I need to. Switch channels.”
Lillian did so. She’d said her piece, and really didn’t have a problem with Saul Poniard except for his excitability, and lack of experience. Derek would handle it. Which was good because she didn’t want to have to go take out baby-SWAT wannabe before taking down that scumbag dad on the inside.
Who she could now hear screaming at his wife.
“Tactical Command, this is Bulldog One. I am at the back door. I have visual on the mom and kids but not the tango.”
She could see them in the kitchen, the woman and children sitting at a small round wooden table. The mom had both hands reached out toward her children, a boy around nine and a girl around seven, and they sat on either side of her, but not near enough to be touching her.
The tango paced into view, gun in hand, but at least pointing down, and he smacked the mom in the head with his bare hand as he stormed past and out of sight from where Lillian crouched at the window. Guy was still shouting.
“I still have a shot. Repeat, Bulldog Two has a shot,” Saul said. He was in a tree on the east side of the house, so Lillian had no doubt the angle gave him a tactical advantage. And yes, if Psycho Dad’s actions escalated, then Saul would need to take him out.
But otherwise Lillian would do everything she could to make sure these kids didn’t see a parent—no matter how terrible he was—die right in front of them.
Not here. Not today.
“Negative,