7:07 p.m.
New York
“Um…hello…I mean hi Jake. It’s me—Deanna. Well, of course you know who this is.” She cleared her throat. “Hey listen…about earlier…” she fiddled with her gold necklace, “I just wanted to call and say I’m sorry for the way I acted. I just…I—I was hoping we could talk. I don’t know where you are, or what you’re doing, but maybe…maybe you could give me a ring, and we can meet somewhere. I think it’s best if—”
“Agent Stockwell,” a SWAT team member knocked on the window, “we’re ready for you.”
She nodded and held up a forefinger, “I’ll be right there,” before facing the steering wheel. “Um…I have to go, but…can we meet tonight? What I have to say is better done in person, face to face.”
Stockwell shouldered open the door. A pinging sound reminded her to grab the keys from the ignition. She slammed the car door. “Okay, well…call me when you get this. Bye.” She hustled to the back of her Ford Escape, lifted the hatch and slipped into a bulletproof vest. After attaching the straps, she stared at the protective garment, her mind revisiting the last time she had donned one:
“That son-of-a—” Stockwell sucked in a short breath, “he shot me in the chest.”
Pushing her arms aside, Jacob ripped open her shirt, exposing two marks on black material. “It’s okay. You took them in the vest.” He let out the air his lungs had held for the last half minute. “You’re going to be fine.” He stood and helped her get to a sitting position.
“Tell that to my girls. Right now,” she winced, “they don’t believe you.” Stockwell shifted on the couch. “Boy, this stings.”
“I’m sure your…girls…just need some rest and tender loving care.”
She lifted her head and spied him. “And I suppose you’re volunteering for the tender loving care part?”
His cheeks turning a couple shades darker, he faced her, holding out a hand. “We really should be going. We don’t want to be here when the cops show up.”
Smiling, Stockwell recalled his blushing face. That’s one of the things I love about him. He’s not afraid to show—
“Agent Stockwell, we’ve got credible intel that the perp is in the structure. My men are ready to breach on your order.”
“Copy that, Commander.” She retrieved her Glock, pulled the slide back a hair, spotted a shiny brass case and let the gun go into battery. “What are their positions?”
“Bravo Team is stacked at the back door. I’ll be leading Alpha through the front.”
She looked further down the street, at the building they were preparing to raid. “What about windows, cellar doors, other access points?”
“I’ve got spotters covering all sides. If someone runs, we’ll know about it.”
She nodded, slipped in an earbud, tapped the device and faced the man. “You copy?”
“Loud and clear, ma’am.”
“Tell your men we go in one minute.”
… … … … …
7:12 p.m.
Down on one knee behind a row of hedges near the street, Glock in hand, Stockwell viewed the time on her watch. 3…2…1…
SWAT Commander: “Go, go, go!”
Stockwell stood and sidestepped down the sidewalk, along the hedgerow, listening to the raid play out.
“FBI…Get down on your knees…Down, down, down.”
“This is Bravo Team. Backside’s clear.”
“Show me your hands. Show me your hands.”
“Get down now.”
Commander: “Peters, right…Jenkins, on my left. Freeze. Stop right there. We got a runner—window—east side.”
Spotter 1: “I got him. Suspect’s heading north, toward the rear of the structure.”
Commander: “Delta Team, report.”
Delta Team: “I don’t have eyes on the subject.”
Stockwell darted around the hedges, ran across the lawn, put her left shoulder to the corner of the house and peeked out. “This is Stockwell. I got him.” She took off on a dead run, between the homes and into the backyard of the adjoining property. “He’s going east. I’m in pursuit.”
Commander: “Charlie Team, go north and cut him off.”
“Copy that.”
After holstering her weapon on the run, Stockwell stuck a toe into a chain fence and grabbed the horizontal bar. She scaled the fence, flopped over the bar, landed on her feet and bolted eastward. The FBI agent climbed two more fences and came to the next street over. Huffing, she drew her pistol and eased out from behind a large oak. She breathed in through her nose, let the air out through pursed lips and repeated the exercise. Steady, Dee. Calm. Easy.
“Agent Stockwell, this is Charlie Team. I have you in sight. I’m coming up on your six.”
She leaned further out and spotted a black blur cross the street. “Copy that.” Thrusting out an arm, “The perp went behind that building,” Stockwell sprinted down the sidewalk and snaked between two parked cars. “That’s a dead end.” She ran across two lanes of traffic, while extending a hand. “Circle—” screeching to a halt, a white Chevy stopped two feet from hitting her. The agent slammed a single fist onto the hood. Dang that was close. “Circle around. We’ll box him in.”
“Copy that.”
… … … … …
Crouching, a two-handed hold on her Glock, creeping down a garbage-littered alley, Stockwell looked and listened, her head occasionally bobbing up, or to the side, to see over and around objects. Behind a cloudy sky, the setting sun cast shadows and created natural hiding places.
She grabbed the Pelican 2350 flashlight clipped to her jean pocket, slid her hand into the lanyard and pressed the back of her hands together before pointing pistol and light in the same direction. Thumbing the tail switch, she lit up a stack of pallets—and the dark alcove behind them—before shutting off the Pelican. She swung the gun/light combo to the left, while taking a big step to the right. Flash and move, Dee. Flash and move.
The FBI agent sneaked by the alcove, kept her right shoulder to the brick building and moved forward, her focus on the dumpster ahead.
“This is Charlie. The southeast corner is clear…moving north.”
A change in the light pattern caught Stockwell’s attention. She flicked her eyes left. Shadows danced. Pushing away from the wall, she spun right, sidestepped left and flashed the dumpster with the 2350. “FBI!” Centered in the beam of her light was the black hole of gun muzzle. She dove behind another, shorter stack of pallets, while getting off three one-handed shots. “Contact. Northeast corner.”
Charlie Team: “Copy that. I’m on my way.”
Stockwell rolled and rose to a squatting position. “Drop the weapon and come out with your hands—” Gunfire preceded bullets. Her cover ripped apart. Splinters slapped her in the face. She leaned left and aimed for the muzzle flashes. Five trigger pulls later, she heard screaming.
“Ow…you shot me.” He howled in pain.
“FBI. Drop your weapon and—”
“I’m shot. Help…I need help.”
Stockwell came out from the right side of the pallet stack and blasted the assailant with 178 lumens of bright white light. “Drop the gun now!” His hand flailed, and she heard metal bounce off concrete. “Suspect’s down. Move in.”
“Copy that.”
Gun up, flashlight blinding the man on the pavement, Stockwell rushed forward and kicked the black pistol further away. “Face down—on your belly.”
“You shot me. I’m dying.”
“On your stomach, now!”
The man groaned and rolled over.
She let go of the light and produced handcuffs. “Hands on your head.” The Pelican 2350 dangling from her wrist, she lowered a knee into the man’s back, holstered her Glock 19M, wrenched both of his arms behind his back and secured the manacles.
“Ow!”
Glimpsing the approaching SWAT team member in her peripheral vision, Stockwell transferred more of her weight to the drug dealer’s lower spine, squeezed the cuffs tighter and delivered an elbow to the back of the criminal’s head before standing. She took a couple deep breaths and pointed, “He’s all yours,” before bending over and putting hands on knees.
“This is Charlie Team. Suspect is secured and has multiple GSW’s. We’ll need an ambulance.” He eyed the female agent. “You good?”
Stockwell stood straight, nodded and expelled a burst of air. “I’m fine.”
“All team members accounted for…Charlie out.” The SWAT member faced her. “You all right, Agent Stockwell?”
She looked at him. “Yeah,” she shot back. “I said I was, didn’t I?”
He tipped his head toward the man in restraints. “What’s with the extracurricular activities after he’s already in cuffs?”
She squinted at the prone drug pusher. “Who knows how many kids he’s put in graves with that crap he sells? One punch isn’t going to kill him.”
“Still, that’s not like you.”
Stockwell confronted the SWAT member, glaring into oversized goggles. “I guess I’m just having a bad day…now let it go.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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