Chapter 57 Hey, Kool-Aid!
FIFTY-SEVEN
Hey, Kool-Aid!
REED
Negotiations for a safe hostage release set with the sun. The time for talk is over. Under the cover of night, a swarm of federal agents hustles into three armored vans at the very edge of the property. A smattering of snipers takes position in the trees.
Three teams of ten, armed to the teeth, will be bringing Kenzie and the surgeon home.
Alive.
As part of Charlie Team, I take my seat on a bench in the back of a van, along with nine others—four SWAT-trained federal agents and five members of the Violent Crimes Task Force.
We’ll enter through the front door after the alpha and bravo teams breach the compound on opposite sides of the property.
We’re the final wave.
Thanks to the delay from our failed negotiation attempts, McBride, Hemsley, and Andrews had time to return to Tampa. They’ve joined Romero, Fowler, and me in the van.
The back door is closed as the last SWAT agent enters.
And now we wait.
Carnage knows we’re here, so we won’t have the element of surprise. Our best hope is that he believes we’re waiting for his decision on our latest offer for a peaceful surrender.
We aren’t.
Instead, we’re employing brute force and will be barreling in at full speed.
I was itching to blast my way inside when we arrived, but the FBI doesn’t work like that. The first goal in hostage situations is to de-escalate and bring a nonviolent resolution.
If I were in charge, we’d have skipped that part. We never had a chance of Carnage walking out with his hands up.
The metal of my gun feels colder than usual. And heavier. Probably because of what it represents. This shit is personal.
In my career, no other arrest, bust, or raid has put this much weight on my shoulders. If another case in my future should top this one in terms of pressure, I’ll take it as my cue to retire early.
Fortunately, I’m not flying solo like when I arrested Riddick. I’m part of a huge team of well-trained professionals, all of us working in concert to end Carnage’s reign of terror.
Before the FBI arrived, the Redleg operatives were already in place, strategically positioned in the wooded area surrounding the STK compound.
Far enough to stay out of law enforcement’s way.
Close enough to step in should the worst happen.
And in the unlikely event any STK members get through our front line, they’ll run smack dab into Redleg’s perimeter.
I can’t see them, but it’s reassuring to have them there.
As for the STK compound itself, it isn’t what I expected. I envisioned a gang setting up shop in a drab industrial structure. Maybe an abandoned warehouse or rundown building in the thick of downtown.
I was wrong.
It’s an impressive residence I would’ve assumed was owned by a tech guru or wealthy physician.
A sprawling two-story home on an acre of property, nestled into a wooded area not far from the beaten path.
Patio in the back and a picturesque front porch.
A well-manicured lawn stretches to the wall that meets the tree line. There’s even a fucking widow’s walk.
All it’s missing is a garden gnome statue and a swing set in the backyard.
The only sign something dubious goes on inside is the ten-foot-tall concrete wall encapsulating the property, which is lined with security cameras. Additionally, some of the upper-floor windows have small balconies, where they could take aim at us and retain some cover.
We were able to see beyond the walls thanks to Redleg’s drones, which were already in place, so we didn’t waste time setting up our own.
Regrettably, the home is reinforced with a material that blocks heat sensor readings. Meaning, we don’t know how many are inside or where they are.
That was another reason we attempted negotiations.
The FBI’s mobile command rig is parked at the end of a one-lane dirt road leading to the home. SSA Chase and our ASAC will oversee things from there, along with representatives from the gang unit and SWAT commanders.
Agent Carson opted to stay back at the FO, where she’s patched in. She’s more comfortable running things from there. That was a plus in my book. Lila’s with her, rather than strangers we would’ve rustled up from other units. Aaron, the other Redleg guard, stayed behind for added peace of mind.
I’m jolted from my thoughts at the sound of Chase’s voice in my earpiece.
“Okay, teams. As you know, we don’t have eyes on the inside.
You’ll be flying blind. However, you saw the schematic, and our snipers will provide cover for your entry.
As soon as Alpha Team clears the gate, the other vehicles will follow.
You’re going in fast and hot. Alpha through the front door.
Bravo through the back. Charlie will hold at the front until Alpha sweeps the foyer and living room.
Expect heavy resistance. I’ll be counting you down momentarily. Stand by.”
She pauses, then adds a somber, “Good luck.”
On my left, Hemsley rocks his head impatiently. “Let’s fucking go.”
I trade glances with Agents Romero and Fowler, who are seated across from me. Only one of them is poised for action.
Drake is the definition of composure, face and jaw lax. He’s focused and ready.
Fowler, on the other hand, is twitching out of his skin. Sweat beads run down his face, and he tugs at his vest, unable to get comfortable.
Bad, bad sign.
I lower my chin, eying him down. “Fowler, you good?”
He lengthens his neck, stretching from side to side before answering with a nervous two-note laugh. “Ha, ho, ha.” He forces down a swallow, then blurts, “Trina’s pregnant. She told me this morning.”
On my right, Agent McBride thumps the back of his head on the metal lining of the cargo hold. “Shiiit, FoMo. You can’t think ‘bout that now. That’s like shearing a pig. Don’t make no sense.”
So glad he could race back from Cocoa for this raid.
It’d be boring without his colorful metaphors and idiotic nicknames.
At least he swapped the cowboy hat for a ballistic helmet.
While we aren’t decked out to the same extent as our SWAT counterparts, we do have on additional gear.
Since they’re moving in first, we can get away with less bulk.
I nudge Luke in the bicep with the butt of my rifle to shut him up, then address Fowler using more compassion than I knew I possessed.
“Congrats, man. You’ll make a great fucking dad.
We’ll have a beer later to celebrate. For now, keep your head in the game.
Why don’t you take the spot between Andrews and me when we enter? We’ll keep you locked in. Yeah?”
Romero’s face loses some of his intensity, returning to the more sarcastic visage he normally wears.
One brow arches curiously, and his mouth bunches to the corner.
“Look at you, Motherfucking Teresa.” He shifts his gaze to the end of the bench where my mentor sits.
“We found your replacement of team bleeding heart. You’re good to retire. ”
I flip Drake off.
Fortunately, the interaction seems to have snapped Fowler out of his head. “Fuck me. Nothing checks your shit like Hayes coming in with warm fuzzies.” Rolling his shoulders back, he wobbles his head to shake off the jitters physically. “I got this. I’m good.”
One last shimmy to ward off the nerves, then he widens his eyes at me. He mouths, “Thank you.”
A filament of warmth flickers and expands through my chest.
Shit. Is that how Andrews feels all the time?
The comms crackle. “We are green light to proceed. Alpha team, take out the gate in 3-2-1.”
We jostle as the van shifts into gear, rapidly accelerating. My heart thunders, shooting adrenaline through my veins. All my senses come into focus.
The bang-boom-crash of the other unit slamming through the gate brings a sick grin to my face. At some point in my career, I want to be the driver who gets to Hey, Kool-Aid! my way through a barrier.
Gunfire rings out, growing louder as we tear through the yard behind the other vans. Bullets ping off the vehicle’s solid metal sides, making some of the agents flinch.
I stay still, unflinching. My grip on my rifle is firm.
Updates pour through our comms rapidly as the scene unfolds. Sounds like the snipers are having a field day picking off STK shooters.
“First roof shooter down.”
“Northeast corner down.”
“Three on widow’s walk down.”
“Front porch. Got one.”
“And two.”
“Curtain movement. Right of front door.”
Chase jumps in, responding to that last sniper. “Don’t fire into the house yet.”
“Copy.” He quickly tacks on, “Third front porch shooter down.”
“Another on the roof,” another sniper announces. “Got him.”
“Front door clear for entry.”
“Rear clear.”
Chase orders, “Alpha and Bravo, go for breach.”
Our vehicle comes to a jerky stop behind Alpha Team’s van. We file out, guns drawn and heads lowered.
Ahead of us, Alpha Team rams through the front door and quickly pours into the house. Via the main comm channel, Bravo’s team leader announces their simultaneous entry through the back door.
“Federal agents. Drop your weapons. Hands up.”
Multiple voices echo variations of the warning.
Gunfire starts instantly.
These fuckers won’t surrender.
The four Charlie SWAT agents lead our group, holding up their riot shields for an extra layer of protection. In a tight cluster, we hustle toward the porch.
A dead STK shooter is slumped on the steps. The agent who was given the call sign Charlie Two swipes the assault rifle from the body and slings it over his shoulder. Dead men can’t shoot, but we shouldn’t leave extra loaded guns lying around.
Our feet hit the porch, and we split into two groups of five. We’ll take cover on both sides of the front door, keeping our backs pressed against the structure until we’re cleared to enter.
The gunfire steadily lessens, then drifts farther away as they penetrate deeper into the compound.
Charlie One orders, “Move to channel three now.”