A dozen heavily armored tactical operators spilled out onto the avenue. The night was instantly shattered by the blinding, high-intensity beams of SureFire weapon lights and the piercing green dots of laser sights cutting through the smoke. The operators moved with terrifying, practiced precision, fanning out in a wide tactical arc, their M4 rifles leveled directly at the windshield of my cruiser.
"Driver! Turn off the engine and show your hands! Do it now!"
The amplified voice over the Suburban’s public address system was deafening, echoing off the empty buildings. I didn't hesitate. I reached down with my trembling left hand, killed the ignition, and pulled the keys completely out of the cylinder, dropping them onto the floorboard. The engine died, leaving only the frantic whirring of the spinning lightbar and the overlapping shouts of the operators.
The green lasers rested squarely on my chest. If I moved my right arm—the one hanging dead and dislocated from my shattered shoulder—they would interpret the twitch as a draw stroke and put three dozen armor-piercing rounds through the glass before I could blink.
"Both hands! Out the window! Now!"
I kept my eyes locked on the blinding wall of white light ahead of me. "I am a federal agent!" I screamed, my voice tearing at the back of my throat. "My right shoulder is dislocated! I cannot raise my right hand! I am opening the door with my left!"
There was a split second of tense, deadly silence from the tactical line. I didn't wait for committee approval. I reached out with my left hand, grabbed the interior door latch, and shoved the heavy metal door wide open.
I carefully leaned my head and left shoulder out into the muggy night air, keeping my left hand spread wide and empty. The green lasers immediately shifted, tracking my movement, painting my face, my neck, and my chest. I slowly dragged my battered body out of the driver's seat, biting down on my tongue to stop from screaming as the shifting weight pulled on my ruined right rotator cuff. My boots hit the wet asphalt. I kicked the door shut behind me, immediately dropping to my knees in the center of the avenue.
"Face down! Flat on the ground! Do it!"
I leaned forward, letting my left side take the impact as I collapsed onto the wet pavement. I turned my head, pressing my bruised cheek against the rough, cold asphalt. My right arm lay uselessly pinned against my side, the torn, blood-slicked skin of my wrists clearly visible in the blinding glare of the tactical lights.
Heavy boots pounded across the asphalt. Two operators closed the distance in a dead sprint. One of them drove a heavy, Kevlar-padded knee directly into the center of my back, pinning my spine to the ground with crushing force. Heavy, gloved hands grabbed my left wrist, pulling it sharply behind my back.
"Do not pull the right," I gasped, the air rushing out of my lungs as the operator's weight compressed my vest. "It's separated. My credentials are in my left breast pocket. Special Agent Hayes. Badge number four-four-seven."
The operator hesitated, his hands freezing on my tactical vest. He didn't lock the zip-tie. A third set of boots walked slowly into my line of sight. I recognized the scuffed tactical boots and the heavy, black drop-leg holster. It was Agent Reynolds, the team leader for the Counter Assault detail.
Reynolds knelt down beside me, his flashlight beam cutting across my bruised, bleeding face, lingering on the torn skin around my wrists, and then snapping down to my waist to verify that my service weapon was still securely holstered on my left hip.
"Hayes?" Reynolds’ voice was a harsh, tight bark of sheer disbelief. "Command just broadcast a system-wide Code Red on your perimeter. Vance reported you abandoned Echo-Four, killed your radio, and went completely dark. We were warned a rogue vehicle was inbound."
"Vance is lying," I said, my voice rattling in my chest as I struggled to draw a breath under the operator’s heavy knee. "The perimeter was compromised by a local cop. Mitchell. I left him cuffed to his own bumper two miles back. Vance set the intersection up to fall. He was funneling you straight into the viaduct."
Reynolds didn't move. His face was hidden behind a heavy ballistic helmet and a black face shield, but I could feel the cold, hard weight of his suspicion. In his earpiece, Command—run directly by Assistant Special Agent in Charge Vance—was telling him I was the traitor.
"The viaduct was our primary egress route," Reynolds said slowly, his tone dangerously flat. "Why the hell would Vance route us into an ambush?"
"Because he knew you wouldn't survive it," I choked out, forcing my head up off the pavement. "Don't take my word for it. Look in the front seat of that cruiser."
Reynolds stared down at me for three long seconds. The heavy tactical standoff hummed with absolute, lethal tension. The lasers never left my back. Finally, Reynolds tapped the shoulder of the operator pinning me down. The crushing weight vanished, though the operator kept a firm grip on my left arm.
Reynolds stood up, unholstered a heavy tactical flashlight, and walked carefully toward the idling police cruiser. He stepped around the open driver's door and shined his beam directly into the dark interior.