Swat Standoff. Lena Diaz

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       Chapter Two

      Blake’s prisoner started laughing. He was tempted to shoot the man again.

      “I see you got your suspect,” someone snarled close by.

      He whirled around to see Dillon Gray striding toward him. Beside him, Chief Thornton’s white puff of hair lifted and fell with every step he made. Both of them looked mad enough to wrestle hornets.

      A sinking feeling settled in Blake’s gut. What had he done wrong this time? He looked to his teammates for support. But they were all lying motionless on the ground. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders as Dillon stopped directly in front of him, the chief a few steps back.

      “What happened?” Blake waved toward the team. “I don’t understand. I took out the first suspect in the barn. I know he didn’t get off any shots. And I followed this guy to the river.”

      “There were three suspects,” Dillon snapped. “While you were off gallivanting alone, the third suspect ambushed the rest of the team.”

      Blake’s gaze dropped to the red splotches on Dillon’s chest that added weight to his accusation.

      “But our intel said there were only two.” Blake motioned toward his prisoner, who was still laughing, but was now sitting on top of a rotting log. “This guy took off, so I—”

      Bam. White-hot pain exploded through Blake’s jaw and he slammed back onto the ground. He glared up at Dillon, whose fist was still clenched as if he were ready to punch him again.

      “What the hell was that for?” Blake snarled. “I got two of the bad guys.”

      “Yeah. You did. But you ignored the signals from both Randy and me and went all Rambo on your own.” Dillon waved toward the bodies on the ground. “You weren’t here when the team needed you.”

      Blake shoved to his feet. “I don’t know what has you so fired up. If an entire team can’t handle one bad guy without my help, you should be mad at them, not me.”

      “You idiot.” Dillon took another step toward him.

      The chief grabbed his shoulder. “Easy,” Thornton said. Then he let Dillon’s shoulder go and moved back, making it clear that he trusted his most senior officer to handle the situation. But he’d rather it not devolve into a fistfight.

      Blake wanted to punch both of them. He’d done his job. It was the rest of the team who’d failed.

      Dillon’s jaw clenched and unclenched several times before he spoke again. “You can get up now,” he told the team. “Everybody reload your paint guns and get fresh camo. We’re doing this again until we get it right.”

      A chorus of grumbles sounded from the others as they stood. But they dutifully headed toward the stacks of supplies on the other side of the clearing, where their gear was laid out for the day’s training exercises.

      “Tim, you okay?” Dillon asked the man who’d played the suspect that Blake had “killed” in the river.

      “A bit bruised. He shot me twice. That second one was out of pure meanness.”

      “Oh, for Pete’s sake. You didn’t go down,” Blake said. “I had to make sure you were dead.”

      “I was in the water. What was I supposed to do? Go under?”

      “It might have been more convincing.”

      The man swore.

      Dillon waved Tim toward the other SWAT team members. “Have one of the others uncuff you. If you don’t want to stay for round two, I understand. You’ll get paid either way.”

      “Nah, that’s fine. As long as he isn’t part of the next exercise.” He angled his chin toward Blake.

      Blake rolled his eyes. The man was being melodramatic. But then Dillon stepped closer, blocking his view of their pretend-perpetrator.