High-Caliber Holiday. Susan Sleeman

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      The doors slid on the track, closing with a thump of finality.

      “Now we’re alone, and we can get down to business,” he said.

      Business. Meaning her death.

      Time slowed and she was aware of everything around her. The grating of the train as they took a curve. The pungent scent of his alcohol. The unmistakable cloying smell of fear in the air.

      “Do you even know who I am?” he sneered.

      Morgan wished she could say she knew his name, but the plaintiff list was long and she couldn’t identify them all. She knew the truth was plastered on her face so she didn’t speak a word.

      “You don’t know me, do you?” He shifted and pressed the gun deeper into her forehead. “I’m not surprised. Not after your coldhearted representation in the trial.”

      He huffed out a laugh and ground the gun into her skin, his eyes fixed on hers. “Well, know this, Morgan Thorsby. I’m Craig Shaw and everyone will soon know my name. The minute we reach the last stop, I’m the man who’s going to drag you off this train, haul you out to your precious mill and end your life.”

      * * *

      Brady Owens listened to the hum of tires as the First Response Squad raced toward MAX’s final Yellow Line stop near Portland State University. A 911 call from the train operator who’d been listening into the hostage situation told them the shooter planned to disembark with his hostage at this stop.

      “ETA two minutes,” team leader Jake Marsh announced from the driver’s seat.

      “Roger that,” Brady said, his pulse ratcheting up at the call to action.

      His fellow FRS members sitting on bench seats in the rear of the truck responded with somber affirmatives. Negotiator Archer Reed bowed his head in prayer. He would carry the heaviest duty tonight, talking the gunman down, hopefully preventing the need for Brady’s services as the team sniper. Paramedic Darcie Stevens would render aid to the traumatized woman and anyone injured in the incident. Jake would direct the action and bomb tech Cash Dixon would fill in wherever Jake asked. The only one missing from their six-person emergency response team was their other negotiator, Skyler, who was on her honeymoon.

      Brady couldn’t imagine any other people he’d want to take with him into the tense situation awaiting them. All team members except Darcie were sworn sheriff’s deputies who fulfilled other job responsibilities when they weren’t responding to an emergency. Though assigned to the county sheriff’s department, they were dispatched to handle negotiations and major emergencies for the entire Portland metro area regardless of county lines.

      “We’re here.” Jake swung their mobile command center the size of a package delivery truck to the curb out of view of the MAX stop.

      Even late at night, students would be milling about. The team would contain the shooter in the train and cordon off the area to protect innocent lives. Then Archer would use the train’s PA system to communicate with the gunman.

      That was the plan. But they had no time to run the scenario, and plans could go wrong.

      Curling his .330 Winchester Magnum rifle closer, Brady mentally checked off his steps. Ammo first. Check. Already loaded in his rifle. If he had to shoot, it would be through glass, requiring special ammo to reduce deflection on glass penetration. Extra ammo was in his vest. Scope was fixed and calibrated. Binoculars and laser range finder snug in his pocket. He patted his vest pocket to confirm. He was ready. He could do this.

      Jake cut the engine, then joined the team. He glanced at Darryl Collins, the computer tech assigned to their team, who sat behind a console. “We have eyes or ears on the train yet?”

      “I’m still working with the MAX tech team to patch us through.”

      “Well, get ’em. No way we’re going in blind.” Jake eyed the team, his gaze sharp and focused. “The gunman is not getting off the train with Morgan Thorsby and she’s getting out of this alive and well. You got that?”

      They nodded.

      “You have your assignments.” Jake clapped his hands. “Let’s roll.”

      Brady slung his rifle over his shoulder and headed into the night, toward the perfect location he’d chosen in a yard abutting an apartment complex. He jogged across the road and slipped through the gate. Resting his arm on a fence post topped with snow, he took a shooting stance. He’d like to get into a more natural position, but that wasn’t an option. No problem. He’d made shots in every position imaginable as a Marine Scout Sniper. He sighted in the scope and adjusted for the wind.

      “Falcon, in position,” he said into his microphone.

      “Roger that, Falcon,” came Jake’s response. “Stand by. Train ETA in one minute. Audio streaming.”

      With more than one agency responding to the incident, they would use code names when communicating. The group had long ago voted on an animal name for each person. Brady was tagged Falcon, as the bird and he both moved fast. Cash got Termite since they were demolitions experts. Archer, Mockingbird for his soothing voice. And Jake? He had the best name of all. Papa Bear.

      “Got eyes and ears, sir,” Darryl’s voice came over Brady’s earpiece.

      “Then we’re a go, Falcon,” Jake said. “TriMet has confirmed the doors will remain closed on this car and Mockingbird is patched through to the train. We’ll give Termite time to escort passengers in the other cars to a secured spot, then Mockingbird will take over.”

      “Roger that, Papa Bear,” Brady confirmed. “I’m ready.”

      But was he ready? He wasn’t sure. Not completely, anyway. Not after their last callout, when he’d hesitated to take the shot. He was good with taking extreme measures for hostage-taking criminals and drug dealers, but the prior callout involved a former marine. Brady had felt like he was taking out a family member. Couldn’t be helped, though. The man had lost touch with reality. If Brady hadn’t acted, the guy would have killed his wife and three sweet children.

      Now Brady wasn’t sure how he’d react when it came time to pull the trigger.

      The train rolled in, the brakes squealing to a stop.

      Focus, man. Focus. He fine-tuned his scope and shut out everything around him. The biting wind. The falling snow. The flag flapping on the next building. The sound of Cash moving people out of the line of fire. All of it faded into the background, his eye fixed dead center on his scope.

      The occupants of the car came into focus in the crosshairs. Morgan Thorsby was blonde, petite and wearing a trench coat tied over what looked like an expensive suit, but it was the gunman, Craig Shaw, who Brady was most interested in.

      Brady adjusted his scope. Sighted on the T-zone of Craig’s head.

      “I have a target, but no shot. No shot.” Brady kept his eyes on the scope, but wouldn’t shoot before an attempt was made to end this standoff without loss of life.

      “Craig,” Archer’s voice came over the train’s speaker.

      Craig’s head shot up. “Who’s that? How do you СКАЧАТЬ