Tennessee Takedown. Lena Diaz

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СКАЧАТЬ like porcupine quills. His dark gaze locked on her.

      And then he smiled.

      Ashley’s fight-or-flight instincts had kicked in. She ran. Around the corner, past the glass-enclosed offices the managers used. Empty. Thank God. At least half the company was out to lunch. But the rest were here, like her, trapped between the shooter and the only exit.

      She kept running, to the other side of the building, to another maze of cubicles. She dove into the nearest one and grabbed the phone from the top of the desk. That was when she’d called nine-one-one.

      A terrified scream echoed through the room.

      Ashley’s pulse sputtered. “He’s still here,” she whispered.

      “Help is on the way.”

      The operator’s calm, matter-of-fact tone had Ashley clenching her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Didn’t the operator realize people were dying? Had the woman even called the police?

      Leaning as far out of the cubicle as she dared, she risked a glance down the main aisle. The shooter’s progress through the offices of Gibson and Gibson Financial Services was marked by screams and shouts coming from the other side of the building.

      The mournful wail of police sirens erupted outside the windows.

      Thank you, thank you, thank you!

      “I hear sirens,” she whispered. “They’re close.”

      “Yes, ma’am. Are you still in the same location?”

      “I haven’t moved.”

      “I’ve notified the police where you are. They’ll be there soon.”

      Ashley was really starting to hate the word soon. And she also sorely regretted taking the auditing contract in Destiny, Tennessee. If she were in her home office in Nashville right now, she wouldn’t be cowering in a cubicle with a crazed shooter on the loose.

      One of the young temps stuck her head out of another cubicle several aisles away. What was her name? Karen? Kristen? Ashley had only met her once and couldn’t remember. The girl’s face was ghostly pale, her eyes wide with terror as she silently begged Ashley for help.

      Ashley’s stomach jumped as if she’d plunged down a steep drop on a roller coaster. The girl couldn’t be more than nineteen. Ashley had to help her. But how? Which cubicle was safer? Should she run to the girl, or have the girl run to her?

      She sucked in a breath. Oh, no. Spiky gray hair showed above a row of cubicles down a side aisle. The shooter. And he was heading straight toward the temp.

      Ashley frantically motioned for the girl to hide.

      The girl’s brow furrowed and she raised her hands in the air, not understanding what Ashley was trying to tell her.

      In a few more steps, the gunman would be able to see them both.

      “Go back,” Ashley mouthed, desperately pointing at the approaching shooter.

      He rounded the corner. Ashley ducked back behind the partitioned wall.

      A high-pitched scream echoed through the room, then abruptly stopped.

      She clamped her hand over her mouth. No, no, no.

      A shoe scraped across the carpet. Ashley froze. A swishing sound whispered through the air, as if someone had brushed up against one of the fabric-covered cubicle walls. Close.

      Too close.

      “Ma’am, the police are evaluating the situation,” the operator said through the phone in her monotone voice.

      Ashley quickly covered the receiver. Her pulse slammed in her ears as she waited, listened. Was the shooter the one who’d made that swishing noise? Had he heard the operator? Her hand shook as she gingerly hung up the phone. She couldn’t wait for the police anymore. If she didn’t do something, right now, she’d be as dead as Stanley Gibson.

      * * *

      DILLON GRAYCROUCHEDbeneaththe window, cradling his assault rifle. He and the rest of his six-man SWAT team waited for the green light to begin the rescue operation in the one-story office building of Gibson and Gibson Financial Services.

      Beside him, his friend since childhood, Chris Downing, watched the screen on his wristband, showing surveillance from the tiny scope he’d raised up to the window. “Casualties at three and five o’clock,” he whispered into the tiny mic attached to his helmet. “One more at eleven o’clock. No sign of a shooter.”

      Dillon’s earpiece crackled and his boss’s voice came on the line. “Witnesses indicate there could be two shooters. Descriptions inconsistent. Shooters are dressed in black body armor. Kill shot will be a headshot. They’re using handguns. No long guns or explosives reported.”

      “Do we have the go ahead to move in?” Dillon asked, inching closer to the door.

      “Negative. Still gathering intel. Hold your position.”

      His team looked to him for direction, their faces taut with frustration. They wanted to go in as badly as he did.

      “Do we have a count yet on how many civilians are inside?” Dillon asked his boss.

      “Negative,” Thornton replied. “Workers are still pulling into the parking lot after lunch. Impossible to know how many escaped and how many remain.”

      Meaning there could be dozens or more inside. Defenseless. Hiding under desks, in conference rooms, in closets, waiting, praying someone would help them. What chance did an unarmed office worker have against men with guns, picking them off like targets at a gun range?

      The stock of his rifle dug into Dillon’s clenched fist. The Destiny, Tennessee, police department was small and more accustomed to patrolling acres of farmland and gravel roads than suiting up in flak jackets and storming buildings. His SWAT team consisted of beat cops, desk jockeys and other detectives like him, but they’d all been hunting and shooting since they could walk. And they trained regularly, and hard, for this type of situation. What was the point of that training if they cowered and did nothing? How many civilians had died in the few minutes his team had been crouching beneath the windows? How many of those civilians were their own friends and neighbors?

      “The team is ready and willing to go. Strongly requesting permission to enter, sir.”

      “Negative,” Thornton replied. “Stand down, Detective Gray. Await further instructions.”

      Dillon cursed.

      Chris tapped his shoulder. “Movement on the east corner,” he whispered. “Appears to be a civilian. Belly crawling toward the exit.” His tortured gaze shot to Dillon. “Heavy blood trail.”

      Dillon closed his fist around the mic so his boss wouldn’t hear him as he addressed his team.

      “Chief Thornton ordered us to sit tight and wait. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of if you follow orders. Some of you have families to support. I don’t. If he fires me, so be it. But I’m not waiting one more minute while people die СКАЧАТЬ