Chapter One
Within every large police force there's a group of men and women with elite training, equipment, and skills who get the calls no one else can handle.I’m one of them. Being a member of SWAT fifty-five is all I’ve ever wanted. Getting here has demanded intense focus, incredible dedication and a talent for firearm handling.
Although right now, about to get shot at in Little Havana, Miami, I’m beginning to wonder why it was my dream—this is more like a nightmare.
“Spot us,” I said.
“Got you,” Carl replied through my earpiece.
I nodded at my colleague Ricardo. “Three. Two. One.” I mimicked the numbers with my fingers.
He used an enforcer to whack the door open. It flew wide on its hinges, the wood splintering as it hit the wall.
I rushed into the narrow hallway, weapon at the ready and gripping a flash-bang. Building entry training kicked in and I swept the deadly end of my gun around the first room I came to. Nothing—just an old, stained sofa, table littered with cartons and mess, and a dusty TV turned off. “Clear.”
Jonathan scooted past me, his armed shoulder padding brushing the bulletproof vest on my back. He swept the next room with one quick flick of his head around the doorway. “Clear.”
I retreated, adrenaline pumping through my system and my pulse thudding in my ears. We had reliable intel that Enrique Faldon was holed up here with his crew. Warrants were out for possession and two counts of murder—he was a man we wanted off the streets of Miami. Though he wasn’t likely to come quietly, hence our presence at five in the morning.
“Clear,” Patrick called from across the hallway as he stepped from yet another room, at a guess I’d say kitchen.
I zipped past him, keeping my weapon high. I turned to the left, shoved a dirty green door with my boot. It swung open, revealing a steep wooden staircase leading downward. “Armed police. Show yourself, hands up,” I shouted.
I was greeted with the sound of banging, then glass shattering. “Down here,” I called to my team. “Movement below.”
Without hesitating I threw the flash-bang and closed my eyes. Within a second there was a satisfying boom and the familiar hiss and smell of smoke.
A yelp and a few groans accompanied it.
“I’m going down,” I shouted, then rushed into the gloom. With each step I prayed a bullet wouldn’t find its way through my armour. Because that would mean a failed mission.
I hated failed missions.
More than anything.
Ricardo was behind me. I sensed someone else too, Jonathan perhaps, or Patrick, I wasn’t sure which, but it wouldn’t be both—someone would stay up top with Carl to keep our retreat unobstructed.
As I made it to the basement floor the smoke began to clear. A brilliant white patch shone through the haze at the far side. A window. Broken.
“This way.” I leapt over two mattresses strewn with twisted blankets and lumpy pillows, then another table littered with mess including needles and condoms.
Using the brilliant green light on my weapon, I swept the room. All my senses were honed in on seeing a face, a gun, a potential threat.
Nothing.
“Shit.” I huffed in anger.
“There.” Ricardo was at my side. “They’ve gone through the window.”
He was right. An upturned black crate stood amongst the broken glass on the floor.
“After them.” I raced to the window. There was blood on several shards of glass and a strip of torn blue denim. Using my gun to push the fragments aside, I then hopped onto the crate and shimmied through the window. It took a little effort in all my gear but I was quick to land, defences up.
I was in a small concrete courtyard with high fences all around. An old motorbike—minus a back wheel—laid horizontal and leaking oil. Next to it a soot-coated drum still dribbling a wisp of smoke.
“What the hell?” I muttered.
Ricardo was out in the open too, gun sweeping the area. “Where’d they go?”