Private S.W.A.T. Takeover

So much for anonymity. If she could figure out who he was, then he had probably identified her as well—the woman who’d reputedly witnessed John Kincaid’s murder. Behind that smart-alecky charm, he was probably wondering why the hell she hadn’t come forward with the entire story and fingered the killer already.

She’d get right on that. Just as soon as she could remember.

“Holden Kincaid, um…how is he related to the man who was killed?”

Grove spread open the case file at the end of the table. He could make that bulldog face of his look pretty grim when he wanted to. “He’s John’s youngest son. And you need to stay away from him.”

Chapter Two

“Got him.” Holden Kincaid framed the target in the crosshairs of his rifle scope, blinking once to make sure his vision was clear.

Clear like crystal.

His mind and body followed suit, blocking out any distraction that might interfere with the execution of the task at hand. The crisp October air lost its chill. The rough friction of the roofing tiles against the brace of his elbows and thighs vanished. Emotions were put on hold as months of training calmed the beat of his pulse.

Every observation was now made with cold-eyed detachment. From his vantage point atop the neighbor’s roof across the alley, he could look right over the privacy fence into Delores Mabry’s trashed kitchen. There was a cloudy spot on the window glass, a greasy hand print from the last time the perp had looked out into the back yard. But the smudge didn’t mask the gray-haired woman cowering behind a chair against the refrigerator. The window’s curtains hung wide open, indicating the target hadn’t given much thought to how the police would react to this hostage situation. Holden’s target was big enough to make this a relatively easy shot—if his orders had been to shoot to kill.

But as the pudgy stomach in the bright white T-shirt passed by the window again, Holden knew there would be nothing easy about this shot.

Al Mabry was armed. He was moving. And the poor SOB probably had no clue to the danger his delusional state had put his mother, himself, and a dozen cops into. Going off his meds did that to a schizophrenic. Mabry was ill. Suicidal. If possible, KCPD wanted to end this standoff with everyone alive. But if Mabry decided to obey the voices in his head and suddenly start shooting up more than the living room furniture, then Holden’s orders would change and a life would end.

No emotions allowed.

Static crackled across Holden’s helmet radio and Lieutenant Mike Cutler, his S.W.A.T. team leader and scene commander, came online. “You can take that shot?”

Holden rolled his shoulders and neck, easing the last bit of tension from his body before going still in his prone position. “Yes, sir.”

“Molloy, can you confirm?”

Dominic Molloy, Holden’s lookout, backup and best friend, adjusted his position on the roof beside Holden and peered through his binoculars. “I wouldn’t want to take it. But I’m not the big guy.” Holden sensed, rather than saw, the teasing grin around the steady chomp of Dom’s gum. “The hostage is on the floor,” continued Molloy. “Scared out of her mind, maybe, but she doesn’t appear to be harmed. Mabry’s pacing the kitchen with his gun to his head. Hasn’t pointed it at Mama yet. He does lower the weapon when he stops to drink his coffee.”

Mabry had ordered his mother to brew a fresh pot earlier. After spending the better part of the past night on this call, Holden longed for some hot coffee himself. Or a hot breakfast. Or a hot…No. He couldn’t afford to feel anything right now. Focus.

“The perp’s routine hasn’t varied for the last forty minutes,” Holden reported. “The next sip he takes, I could drop him. I think I can even neutralize the gun.”

“You think?”

Cutler’s skepticism didn’t rattle Holden. “Not a problem, sir. My shot is clear.”

Dom chuckled beside him. “I see what you’re planning.” He raised his voice for Cutler and their teammates to hear. “I can confirm. Kincaid can take the shot.”

“We’ve been messin’ with this drama long enough,” Cutler rumbled. “There’s no way to reason with him and I don’t want this to escalate.” If Mike Cutler couldn’t talk a hostage down from his crazy place, then no one could.

Holden was ready to take the next step. “Do you want me to take the shot, sir?”

“Let’s get him back in the psych ward. Remember, incapacitate him and we’ll take it from there. He hasn’t hurt anything but the furniture yet. I’d like to keep it that way.” Lieutenant Cutler’s tone was concise and commanding—a trait that had always inspired Holden’s own confidence. “Assault team ready to move in?”

“Yes, sir.” The responses echoed from both the front and rear ground locations.

“You have clearance, Kincaid. Assault team—on my go.”

Dom patted the top of Holden’s helmet. “You’re up, big guy. Do it.”

Shoulder? Knee? Either shot would take Mabry down. Funny how the man who’d murdered Holden’s father six months ago had shared the same skills with a gun. One neat shot to the forehead, one to the heart. Clean. Precise. Deadly.

Hell. Where had that thought come from? Get out of my head. But the comparison lingered, forcing Holden to think his way through it before he could purge the illtimed distraction.

The killer had used a hand gun, not a high-powered rifle like the one Holden cradled in his grip. He’d been a good forty yards closer than Holden was to this shot. The victim had been his dad, not a stranger. Had John Kincaid pleaded for his life? Had he held his head high in stoic silence at the end? Had he known death was coming?

Al Mabry didn’t know.

Holden’s heart quickened with each detail, beating harder against his chest, pumping a familiar rage and sorrow into his veins.

The man who’d killed his father had taken a perverse pleasure in torturing him before pulling the trigger. Holden was a better man than that. Mabry wouldn’t die. And if he had to die, he wouldn’t suffer. This was his job. Lieutenant Cutler’s S.W.A.T. team was here to save the damn day.

“Get out of my head,” he muttered, willing his training to retake control of his emotions.

“What’s that, buddy?” Dom asked.

This is my job.

“Taking the shot.” Holden iced his nerves, stilled his breath, framed the target in his sights and squeezed the trigger.

Boom.

Holden’s shoulder absorbed the kick of the rifle. Glass shattered and Al Mabry screamed.

“Go!” Cutler’s order echoed through his helmet.

Crimson bloomed on the perp’s hand as the gun sailed across the kitchen. Holden quickly lined up a second shot to the perp’s left temple in case things went south. But before Al Mabry could fully understand that he’d been shot, Holden’s teammates had battered down the door and rushed the mentally disturbed young man. Jones and Delgado had Mabry facedown on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back, the gun secured, before Holden allowed himself another blink.

The hate and sorrow were buried. The ice remained. Closing his eyes, Holden finally allowed himself to breathe.

“All clear, big guy.” Dom sat up beside him. His boots grated on the gravel roof as he stowed his gear into the various compartments of his uniform. With the flat of his hand, he reached over and slapped Holden’s helmet. “Hey. Cutler gave us the ‘all clear.’ I guess there’s a reason why they call you the best. You were aiming for the gun, right?”

Even more than the chatter of commands and replies zinging from the radio in his helmet, Dom’s gibe reminded Holden that he needed to get moving.

Striving for the same detachment from his work that Dominic Molloy seemed to enjoy, Holden rolled over, splayed his hand in Molloy’s face and pushed him away. He could give as good as he got. “Jealous, much?”

“You wish.” Dom’s eyes sparkled with humor. “I could have made that shot if I wanted to. But it’s my job to watch your backside.”

Holden secured his rifle and picked up the tripod as he pushed to his feet and made his way toward the ladder at the front edge of the roof. “Then enjoy the view. Last man down buys the beer.”

Once on the ground, they shed their helmets and locked their equipment in the back of the black S.W.A.T. van. Combing his fingers through the sweat-dampened spikes of his hair, Holden crossed down to the street to join Rafael Delgado and Joseph Jones, Jr.—Triple J or Trip, as he liked to be called.

He held up his hand to urge the gathering crowd of curiosity-seekers off the street while the others guided the ambulance carrying Al Mabry through. Lieutenant Cutler followed right behind, signaling the EMTs when they were clear to take off. Cutler joined the team as they gathered at the van. The lieutenant congratulated them on a successful mission, reminded them to write their reports. Then he shook Holden’s hand and pulled him aside. “Nice shooting, Kincaid.”

The October morning had enough bite in it to create a cloud between them when Holden released a long, weary breath. Winter was going to be damp and cold—and early—this year in Kansas City. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”