Whitaker shook his head.
— Holden doesn’t panic. If she sent the code and nothing else, she either didn’t have time or she wanted to see how far this went.
— That’s risky. — It’s also exactly like her. She’s always the first one through the door.
Whitaker remembered when Victoria first joined the unit four years earlier. Young, sharp, fearless. She had outperformed plenty of men in selection.
She proved she belonged. Over time, she became one of the best they had. At thirty-two, she was still the one most willing to go where nobody else wanted to go.
The convoy flew down the dark highway. Small towns, woods, and lonely gas stations blurred past. Whitaker never let up.
Every minute mattered. Thirty-eight minutes later, the lights of the small town appeared ahead. — Everybody ready up, Whitaker said over comms.
— No lights, no sirens. We go in quiet as long as we can. — Copy that, Sykes answered from the second vehicle.
The three black SUVs rolled to a stop about two hundred yards from the county police building. Engines off. Night quiet all around.
Only the wind moved in the trees. Whitaker looked over the wheel. Ahead stood a shabby two-story building.
Bars on the first-floor windows. One patrol car out front. No movement outside.
— Gorman, status, Whitaker said softly. — Two a.m. Minimal night staffing.
— Based on records, probably six or seven officers inside. Holden is somewhere in the building. Exact location unknown. Whitaker nodded.
— Simple plan. First team with me through the front. Second team under Sykes locks down the rear exit and any side doors.
— Third team stays mobile and covers the perimeter in case anybody tries to run or backup shows. Weapons ready, but no shots unless I call it. Night vision on.
— Helmet cams recording. Move.
Eight men in black tactical gear slipped out of the vehicles. Heavy armor, suppressed rifles, Kevlar helmets, night optics.
They moved like shadows. Fast, quiet, practiced. Whitaker led from the front.
They reached the main entrance. Locked.
Whitaker tested the handle once. — Gorman. Door.
The big lieutenant took two steps back and drove his boot into the lock. One brutal hit. The door blew inward off its frame with a crash loud enough to wake the whole building.
— Go! Whitaker barked. The team flooded inside.
A long hallway. Dim lights. Stale air. At the desk, a heavyset sergeant had been asleep. He jerked awake and reached instinctively for his sidearm.
— Don’t move! Hands up! Whitaker shouted, leveling his rifle.
The sergeant froze at the sight of eight rifles pointed his way. His hands went up slowly. — Face down! Now!
He dropped to the floor. Gorman snapped cuffs on him and gagged him in one smooth motion.
— Move, Whitaker ordered. — Clear the building. They advanced down the hallway.
A sleepy officer stumbled out of one office, shirt half-buttoned. He saw the tactical team and stopped cold. — On the floor! Hands on your head!
The officer dropped to his knees. Ten seconds later he was zip-tied. Whitaker kicked open the next door, a break room.
Three officers were inside. One reached for a pistol on the table. Whitaker fired a short warning burst into the ceiling.
The blast thundered through the room. Plaster rained down. — Next one goes lower! Whitaker roared. — On the floor! Hands where I can see them!
All three hit the floor instantly. Gorman bound them with plastic restraints. — Where is the female detainee?
