Chapter 12 #2
Rivera's expression shifts. "I thought you were giving me the originals. You said you had everything documented."
"I do. I made copies for you to work with." Gwen's voice stays level. "At the time, I didn't know who I could trust. I kept the originals at home after the first break-in. What's in my office are high-quality copies that would pass for originals unless someone ran forensic tests."
Rivera studies her for a beat, then nods. Understanding, not offense. She's already on her radio, calling for hospital security and base MPs. I'm moving toward the door, Sullivan falling in beside me without being asked.
"Gwen, your office, which floor?" I call back.
"Fifth. But Thatcher, let hospital security handle it. He might be armed—"
"I'm counting on it." I glance at Sullivan. "Get the team. Full tactical loadout. This doesn't end until Briggs is in custody."
"On it."
Gwen catches up to me in the hallway. "I'm coming with you."
"No."
"My office, my evidence, my case."
"Your safety, my responsibility." I stop, face her fully. "Briggs knows you're the reason his operation fell apart. You think I'm letting you anywhere near him when he's desperate and potentially armed?"
Her jaw sets in that stubborn line I'm starting to recognize. "You can't lock me in this building."
"Watch me." I signal to the NCIS agent who'd been assigned to protect her earlier. "Agent Sacco. Dr. Abernathy stays here until Briggs is in custody. Use whatever means necessary."
Sacco nods. "Yes, sir."
Gwen's eyes flash. "Thatcher—"
"Stay. Here." I soften my voice slightly. "Please. I can't do my job if I'm worried about you being in the line of fire."
She studies my face for a long moment, then exhales. "Fine. But I want updates. Regular updates."
"You'll have them." I touch her face briefly, aware of the audience but not caring. "I'll bring him in."
"I know you will."
The hospital is a short drive. Sullivan drives while I coordinate with base security and hospital administrators.
By the time we arrive, they've locked down the fifth floor, initiated Code Silver protocols throughout the building, and security has eyes on the north stairwell where Briggs was last spotted.
Patients are being moved away from the stairwells, staff sheltering in place with locked doors.
My earpiece crackles. I hear Gwen's voice, tense but controlled. "Thatcher, I'm watching the camera feeds from here. Briggs is on the fourth-floor landing, north stairwell. He's stopped moving."
"Why?"
"Looking at his phone. Might be getting instructions or checking something."
Or realizing he's trapped. The fifth floor is locked down, security is converging, and his only exits are blocked.
"Copy that. We're entering the building now."
My team and I move through the hospital entrance in formation. Staff members scatter, security directs us toward the stairwells. We take the north stairs fast, weapons ready.
Third floor. Fourth floor. I can hear voices above—security guards, someone shouting orders.
We reach the fourth-floor landing. Briggs is surrounded by hospital security, but he hasn't dropped his weapon yet. His back is pressed against the wall, gun raised but not aimed at anyone specific. Sweat runs down his face. His eyes are wild, jumping between threats.
"Federal agents!" I announce, weapon trained center mass. "Drop the gun now."
Briggs' eyes find mine. Recognition flashes across his face, followed by pure hatred. "You." The word comes out like a curse. "You ruined everything."
"Drop. The. Gun." I keep my voice level, authoritative. There's no room for negotiation in the tone.
"You don't understand." His gun hand trembles slightly. It's adrenaline or fear, hard to tell. "They'll kill me if I don't deliver. You think federal prison is the worst thing that can happen?"
"I think you have about five seconds to put that weapon down before this ends badly for you."
"It already ended badly." His laugh is brittle, edges into hysteria. "The second that doctor started asking questions, it was over. We were dead men walking."
The gun swings slightly toward the security guards. Not aimed, not yet, but close enough that my finger shifts on the trigger. Sullivan tenses beside me. Garcia repositions, looking for a clean shot if this goes south.
"Nobody has to die today," I say. "But you need to make a choice. Right now."
For a second, I think he might actually do it. Might swing that weapon around, force us to drop him. His eyes have that glassy quality of someone who's already decided they're dead.
Then Gwen's voice cuts through my earpiece, calm and clinical as if she's calling out vitals in the OR. "Thatcher, he's got a finger on the trigger. Two security guards in potential line of fire if he shoots."
She's still watching. Still helping. Still keeping her head while mine wants to calculate kill shots and collateral damage.
"I've got it," I say quietly, just for her.
Her response is immediate. "I know you do."
I refocus on Briggs, read his body language, watch for the tell that'll indicate his next move. His weight shifts. His gun hand wavers.
"Last chance," I say. "Put it down, walk out of here alive. See a lawyer, cut a deal, live to fight another day. Or don't, and we all know how this ends."
Briggs' hand wavers. He looks at the security guards pressing closer now that backup has arrived, at Sullivan flanking left with perfect tactical positioning, at Garcia moving right to cut off any escape route, at me straight ahead with a clear center-mass shot.
Nowhere to go. No way out. No options left.
His weapon clatters to the floor.
The sound echoes in the stairwell, final and absolute. The tension breaks like a snapped wire.
"On the ground, hands behind your head!" I bark.
He complies, movements jerky and defeated.
Sullivan moves in fast, cuffs him with the same efficiency he's demonstrated in a hundred training scenarios and a dozen real-world operations.
Garcia secures the weapon, clears it, bags it for evidence.
Hospital security backs off, letting us take custody of the suspect and the scene.
It's done. Garrison and Briggs are both in custody, the primary suspects secured.
I key my comms. "Gwen, we're clear. Briggs is in custody. Everyone's safe."
Her exhale of relief comes through clearly. "Thank god. I'm still watching you on the cameras, by the way. Nice takedown."
"Couldn't have done it without your eyes on those feeds."
"We make a good team."
"Yeah. We do."
The next hours are a blur of processing, evidence cataloging, and statements. Rivera wants every detail documented while it's fresh. Briggs invokes his right to counsel immediately, but Garrison's lawyer is already negotiating a deal in exchange for testimony about the larger network.
By the time we're finished with the initial debrief, it's late. I find Gwen in the NCIS break room, nursing cold coffee and reviewing her notes.
"Ready to get out of here?" I ask.
She looks up, exhaustion clear on her face. "More than ready. But Rivera said she needs my full statement about the camera monitoring and—"
"She can get it tomorrow. You've been at this since early this morning." I extend my hand. "Come on. I'm taking you home."
"Your home or mine?"
"Mine. It's closer, and you look like you're about to fall over."
She doesn't argue, just takes my hand and lets me pull her up. We collect her things, navigate the gauntlet of NCIS personnel still processing evidence and finally make it to the parking lot.
The drive back to the house is quiet. She sits in my passenger seat, head tilted back against the headrest, eyes closed.
Not asleep, just exhausted. I pull into my driveway, and the ocean is barely visible in the darkness beyond, just the faint sound of waves in the distance.
I kill the engine. The sudden silence feels heavy after the chaos of the day.
We walk up to the house in comfortable silence, the kind that comes from shared exhaustion and relief that everyone made it out alive.
Inside, I strip off the tactical vest, the gear, and weapons secured in the safe. Gwen stands in my kitchen, leaning against the counter like she's too tired to remain upright without support.
"Shower?" I suggest.
"That's the best offer I've had all day."
I turn on the water, let it heat while we strip out of the day's clothes. Under the spray, her hands are gentle on my ribs where bruises are already forming from the tackle, fingers tracing the edges with careful attention. I wince when she finds a particularly tender spot.
"You need ice," she murmurs.
"Later."
"Thatcher—"
"Later." I turn her to face me, tilt her chin up. Water streams between us. "Right now I just need this."
She understands. Her hands slide up to my shoulders, my neck, threading into my hair. I kiss her slowly, thoroughly, taking my time now that the urgency has passed. No rushing, no desperate need to confirm she's safe. Just the two of us, warm water, and the quiet intimacy of shared space.
When we finally get out, she towels off and immediately raids my dresser for clothes. She comes out wearing one of my Marine Corps t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, looking rumpled and half-asleep.
"Stealing my clothes again?" I ask.
"They're comfortable." She climbs into bed, burrows under the covers. "Besides, you like it."
I do. More than I probably should.
I join her, pull her against my side. She curls into me naturally, like we've been doing this for years instead of days. Her head rests on my shoulder, one hand over my heart.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"For what?"
"Today. Trusting me when Briggs had that gun. Staying calm on the cameras, feeding us intel." I pause. "For being exactly who you are."
She's quiet for a moment, her breath warm against my skin. Then she shifts slightly, props herself up just enough to look at me in the dim light.
"I love you," she says. Simple. Direct. No hesitation.
The words hit me square in the chest. I pull her closer, one hand cupping her face, and kiss her. Not gentle, not cautious. The kind of kiss that says everything I haven't had the words for.
"I love you too," I say against her mouth. "God, Gwen. I love you."
She settles back against my shoulder, and I can feel her smile against my skin. "I know you do. You were incredible out there. The way you handled Garrison, talked Briggs down. I watched the whole thing and I've never seen anyone that controlled under pressure."
"Part of the job."
"It's more than that." She props herself up slightly to look at me. "You could have taken the shot. Both times. But you didn't. You brought them both in alive."
"Because that's what you do when you can." I brush a strand of damp hair from her face. "Violence is easy. Restraint takes discipline."
She studies my face in the dim light from the window, those surgeon's eyes seeing more than I want to show her. Then she kisses me, soft and unhurried, and settles back against my shoulder.
"We're a team," she says quietly.
"Yeah." The word comes out rougher than I intend. "We are."
Within minutes, her breathing evens out.
I stay awake longer, watching the way the streetlight cuts across her face, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against my ribs.
My mind should be running through evidence logs, next steps, the network Rivera will chase down.
Instead, all I can think about is the way she said "I know you do" with that unwavering certainty, like she'd already decided I was worth the risk.
I pull her closer and let that thought carry me into sleep.