Chapter 34 Cole
thirty-four
Cole
Ilower my weapon. Slowly, hands where he can see them, palms open. Every muscle fights it but the math is simple. His finger is on that trigger and fear makes muscles contract. I shoot, he shoots.
So I talk.
"Escúchame." Low, calm, the voice I used to talk assets through border crossings. "There's a door behind me. You walk through it, nobody stops you. That's the deal."
His eyes are wild, sweat-dark hair plastered to his forehead, and the pistol shakes so badly it clicks against the teenage girl's skull with every breath he takes. Mid-twenties, maybe younger. Someone who ran in here because there was nowhere else to go and grabbed the nearest body to hide behind.
"Mientes," he says. You're lying. Voice cracking.
"Maybe." I keep my hands up, palms forward. "But you've got two choices. Walk out that door, or die in this room. I'm offering you a third option."
His gaze darts past me to the doorway. Back to my face. Back to the doorway. The gun drifts half an inch, then snaps back to the girl's temple.
In my ear, Kade's voice, barely a murmur. "Blade, status."
I can't answer. Can't key comms without moving my hands, and right now my hands are the only thing keeping this kid from pulling the trigger.
"You don't have to die here." I take a half step closer.
His arm tightens. I stop. "You're not the one I want.
You're not even the one who matters. The man in the suit down the hall, the one shredding files while you hold a gun to a kid?
He's the one who put you in this room. He's the reason you're standing here deciding if today's the day you kill a girl. "
The hostile swallows. His eyes are wet. Scared, not angry, which is worse.
"Déjame salir," he whispers. Let me leave.
"That's what I'm offering. Gun on the floor. Hands up. You walk. Nobody touches you."
Lying. Damian will have him face-down and zip-tied before he clears the doorway. But the lie only needs to work for three seconds.
His gun hand drifts. An inch. Away from the girl's temple, toward me.
The shot comes from behind my right shoulder.
Mira. She'd positioned herself in the doorway without me hearing her move. The hostile is against the back wall, concrete behind him, victims clustered to his left, clean lane. She put the round through the meat of his gun hand, not the wrist, not the arm. Close-quarters work.
The pistol drops. He screams, grabbing his ruined hand, and Damian is on him before the sound finishes. Face-down, zip-tied, dragged into the hallway like luggage. Mira steps aside to let them pass, then holsters her weapon. Face blank, done.
Kade in my ear, sharp: "Blade. Report."
"Hostage secured. One hostile neutralized, non-lethal. Room is clear." The words come out flat, automatic. Sitrep voice. "Seventeen civilians. Fourteen women, three children. Need medical."
"Copy. Doc's moving."
The teenage girl's legs give out. An older woman catches her before she hits the floor, pulling her into her chest, rocking, speaking rapid Spanish into her hair. The girl doesn't make a sound, just shakes.
I holster my SIG. Raise both hands where the rest of them can see. Seventeen faces still pressed against the far wall, waiting for the catch.
"We're not here to hurt you." Gentler than anything I've said all night.
Nobody moves. Nobody believes me yet. I wouldn't either.
Give them time.
Movement from the group. A small body breaking free before anyone can stop her.
A girl. Seven, maybe eight. Dark hair tangled around her face, hanging in knots past thin shoulders.
She runs straight at me and I drop to one knee before I've decided to, and she crashes into my chest hard enough that I feel it through the vest, thin arms locking around my neck with a grip that shouldn't be possible from someone this small.
Her whole body shaking against the ballistic plate, ribcage pressing too hard through her dirty shirt, and she's not crying. Eyes dry, sunken.
She doesn't know me. She's holding on anyway.
I wrap my arms around her carefully, keeping pressure light because she feels like she'd come apart if I held too tight.
My left arm burns where the gauze isn't yet, the graze from the hallway leaking slow heat down my bicep.
Her hair smells like sweat and days without soap and something chemical underneath, and her ribs are under my palm, each one distinct, each one too close to the surface.
"Mou daijoubu dayo." It slips out before I can switch languages. Then, in English: "You're safe now."
Her fingers curl into the fabric of my vest, and she inhales sharply against my collarbone, one ragged breath that shudders through her whole body.
Chesca's age. She is Chesca's age.
Any of them could have been her. Different luck, different family, same merchandise.
Behind me, the team is doing what they do after the shooting stops.
Xander crouched beside an older woman, speaking low Spanish, both her hands clutching his like he's the only solid thing in the room.
She's crying and he lets her hold on, doesn't rush her, doesn't pull away.
His gloves still have someone else's blood on them.
Mira kneeling with two teenage girls, one asking something in Russian, Mira answering in a voice softer than I've ever heard from her.
A woman approaches Damian near the door, reaching for him, saying, "Thank you, thank you, my daughter..." and he goes stiff. Shoulders drawing in. Gratitude does that to him. Always has.
"She's safe," he says. Steps back. "Medical's coming."
I hold the girl against my chest, her ribs through the vest. Chesca's laugh. The weight of her when she falls asleep on the couch and I carry her to bed. This girl weighs less than Chesca. Weeks less, maybe months.
Different luck. That's all that separates them.
Miguel's team comes through the door eight minutes later.
Medical bags, blankets, water bottles. They move carefully, the way you learn to move around people who've been held.
Miguel directing triage, already kneeling beside the first child: "Little ones first, then anyone who can't stand on their own. "
He works his way to me. Checks the girl's pulse at the wrist, fingers gentle against her skin while she's still wrapped around my neck. His face.
No flinch.
"I've got her." He meets my eyes. "Dehydrated, malnourished, but stable. She'll be okay."
His gaze drops to my left arm. The sleeve is dark and wet from bicep to elbow, dried tacky at the top, still damp where it hasn't stopped.
"You're bleeding."
"Graze."
"Sit down. Two minutes." He's already pulling supplies from his bag. "Don't argue with me."
"Doc, I'm fine..."
"I said sit." He doesn't look up. "You want to bleed on the civilians or you want to let me tape it?"
Transferring the girl is the hard part. Her fingers don't want to let go of my vest, clenching tighter when I try to move her toward Miguel, and she makes a small sound in the back of her throat. Not a word, just a sound that means no.
"Hey." I bring my face level with hers. "I need to let the doctor help you. Can you do that for me?"
She studies me the way she probably studied everyone in that room, calculating who was safe and who wasn't long before we kicked the door in.
"You come back?"
Her voice is barely there. Scratched thin, like it's been unused for days or screamed to nothing before that.
"I'll be right outside. I promise."
Miguel lifts her carefully. She watches me over his shoulder as he carries her toward the staging area, small hand reaching back, and another medic takes over with a blanket and a water bottle. The blanket swallows her whole.
Miguel comes back with antiseptic and gauze. "Hold still." He cuts my sleeve open without asking. "What happened?"
"Hallway. Someone with a rifle and bad aim."
"Or good aim and you got lucky." He cleans the wound. The antiseptic bites, sharp and chemical. "Through and through, caught the meat. Two inches in any direction and we're having a different conversation."
"I know."
He wraps the gauze tight, tapes it. My fingers are tingling from the constriction, and that's fine. Better than leaking.
"Nitro's stabilized," he says, packing his kit. "Two cracked ribs, bruised left lung. Conscious and talking, which means he's fine enough to be annoying. He told Xander to stop hovering. Xander told him to stop breathing so hard."
"And Vega?"
"Thigh's deep but clean. Getting stitched in the van. Park lost some mobility in his right forearm, needs imaging when we're back." He pauses, snapping his bag shut. "Everyone's walking out of here, Blade. That's a good night."
It is. But I won't believe it fully until I see Jax on his feet with his own weight under him.
In my ear, Kade: "Medical status?"
"Patched. Arm graze. I'm good."
A pause. "You hesitated before answering."
"I was getting taped up, Ghost. Hard to key comms when a man's wrapping your arm."
"Mm." Which is Kade for I'll decide if you're fine when I see you.
I take the stairs down and step outside.
Night air hits my lungs like cold water after the holding room.
I breathe it in, diesel and wet asphalt and distance from what's upstairs, and my body starts filing its complaints now that the room isn't demanding I ignore them.
Left arm throbbing under Miguel's tape. Vest heavy across my shoulders, thirty pounds of plate carrier I stopped noticing three hours ago and am noticing now.
Knees stiff from kneeling on concrete. The chemical-sweet smell of that room still caught in my sinuses like it's planning to stay.
"You're not going to believe this."
Xander's voice from the parking area, caught between laughing and disbelief.
Walsh.