Balko jumped from the van and we all followed suit.
Once again the heat of the day hit me—it really was going to be a scorcher. Not that I should be surprised, it was mid August.
After a quick check of my gun and adjusting my glove straps, I led the way, my men following.
There was a small, clumsily-fashioned gate in the perimeter, no doubt made by kids or dog walkers. We slipped through it, our footsteps silent, sticking to the shadows the hedging provided.
We were only five trailers away from Sands’ and we covered the ground quickly. Heads and shoulders hunched, moving in stages.
As pre-arranged, we sectioned off at the trailer. Myself, Jonathan and Balko at the main entrance. Ricardo and Sean beside a large window which would be an obvious second exit point.
“Position set,” I said, then heard Sean’s reply in my earpiece. “Go.”
Balko used the sole of his boot to ram the door open. It flew easily on its hinges as he stepped back and regained balance.
Jonathan rushed in. I was so close behind him as he turned right and I turned left, weapons poised, our torsos slid against each other.
“Clear,” he shouted, obviously eyeballing the kitchen and living area.
“Going in.” I stepped forward, heart thudding, but my nerves steady. All my attention was on spotting movement—a face, a gun pointed my way.
I scanned a grubby-looking bathroom to my left, then continued towards a closed door.
Jonathan had my back. I sensed Balko also in the trailer now.
“SWAT! Show yourself, hands up!” I kicked the door. Again it flew open.
Jonathan had turned and we stepped in together, sweeping the room with our gazes and guns, fingers on triggers.
I spun as movement to my left captured my peripheral vision.
A small window. Curtain flapping.
“Shit, he’s gone through there,” I shouted, rushing up to it.
The window was at the opposite end to where Sean and Ricardo were. “Suspect exited through rear of trailer,” Jonathan shouted. “Get round there.”
“On it.” Through my earpiece, heavy breathing as Ricardo and Sean ran.
I can’t let this bastard get away.
I went out the window. I was small enough, even with my kit on.
Landing in a crouch, on dusty ground littered with cigarette butts, I saw my mark.
He was running, his bare feet kicking up behind him. I clocked the pistol he held in his right hand.
“I’m giving chase,” I said, breaking into a sprint, gun aloft.
“Freya,” Jonathan shouted, then muttered, “Damn it.”
I knew he couldn’t get through the window. He’d lose precious seconds backing through the trailer. But I was on it, my legs pumping, feeling like I was flying, my surroundings passing by in a blur.
I turned this way and that, trying desperately to keep him in my sights. Luckily his bright-red trousers made him easy to spot. His torso was bare, but like at the club, he wore a black baseball cap pulled low. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”
He didn’t. I knew he wouldn’t. Instead he sent a bullet my way.
I paused behind a grimy and dented SUV, then gave chase again. The game had just changed. He’d released his weapon with intent to kill a police officer. Now I could wipe the floor with his sorry ass and bury a bullet in his head.