His Hart's Command (Nothing Special 6)

“Sienna Two to Alpha Twenty. Fire’s looking hot down there, boss. Time to clear out.”

“Copy,” Fox answered.

They were almost to the last door. Of course it’d be the one, marked Director’s Residence. Hart tapped his shield’s shoulder, slowing them down. He tried to listen to the argument going on inside, but the voices were too muffled to hear around his helmet and earpiece. His negotiator wasn’t making any headway and command had instructed them to bring the op to an end. Hart could smell the smoke consuming the downstairs and he still hadn’t heard the fire engines. He needed to get his hostages and his team out of there ASAP.

“We can’t throw a flash because we don’t know the condition of the hostages. We don’t want to hit one of them with it.” Fox commented.

“I know. We’ll have—”

“Back up! Back up!” the gunman yelled, carefully emerging from the room with one man crawling around his legs and a woman held firmly in front of him.

“Just let my wife go. You can stay here as long as you want, just please,” the man at the gunman’s feet pleaded. He’d been beaten, possibly pistol-whipped. One eye was swollen shut and his lips were busted and bleeding. An angry purple bruise covered most of his scruffy jaw. He reached for their suspect’s pant leg and was kicked in his stomach.

“Don’t touch me!” the gunman shouted. “All I needed was a place to sleep. It’s what you do here!”

“Please stop. Please,” the woman cried. She was in a torn, pale pink nightgown and she sported a similar bruise as her husband’s, as if she’d been slapped.

Hart felt Fox pulling on his vest, and he took the instruction and inched them back to give the irate man some space. His hand was shaky on the pistol he held in his right hand, while he tried to keep the woman pinned in front of him. His hair was a matted, greasy mess, and he looked as if he’d been on a crystal meth binge for weeks, his teeth rotting out of his skull.

“Atlanta PD SWAT. You let the director and his wife go and we’ll make sure you get a meal and a warm place to sleep tonight.” In jail. “I promise you that,” Hart called out.

The gunman pointed his weapon at them and his shield-bearer was quick to throw up their defense. Hart watched the man through the shield. He appeared as if he was thinking that over, as if he was weighing a night at the Marriott against holding his ground. “How do I know you’re not lying? He’s not gonna let me stay here, now. Not with all those cops out there.”

“Boss this guy is delusional and the fire’s hot. We gotta book,” Fox murmured close to him.

That was a solid copy. Hart tried again. “They probably can’t help you very much tonight. But I can. Both of them need medical attention and the cops will probably shut this place down. But I can help you.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Fox growled.

“We’ll do a trade.” Hart talked as if the man was a little slow on the uptake. “Let my men take the hostages out safely and I’ll take their place. That way the police will have to listen to you.”

“Hell no. Don’t—”

“Stand down!” Hart fired at his lieutenant. He hated the hurt that crossed his best friend’s face, but he couldn’t focus on that. He turned back to the gunman who seemed to be considering that option.

“Please,” the woman whined, slouching, trying to get to her wounded spouse.

Hart gritted his teeth. He would’ve loved to have employed another tactic, but with their hostages wounded, and Hell blazing below them, he didn’t see where he had another option. They were in a narrow hall, away from his sniper’s line of sight which eliminated their plan B.

“Fine. Go.” The meth-head pointed at Hart with his gun. “You. Just you. Drop all that shit and walk toward me. And if you try to run, I’ll shoot them both in the back and then you.”

Hart crouched, set his rifle down at his boots, and took a step forward. Fox grabbed his vest strap but he yanked away from him and inched his hands up in the air. “I’m unarmed now. Let them go. Let my guys come get 'em.”

“No,” the gunman shouted when the shield-bearer moved. “You all stay back there. They can walk to you.”

“Okay.” Hart held his hands out. He told his men to stay back. “I’m coming to you. I’m unarmed.” He stressed the lie.

The gunman released the woman as Hart got to him. She fell onto her husband and he somehow found the strength to get to his feet, grip her in his arms and hurry toward Fox.

The first thing the gunman did was yank Hart’s helmet off his head, taking his comms piece with it. Fuck. He moved faster than Hart thought and was considerably stronger. He blamed that on the drugs. He grabbed Hart’s vest and spun him around, jamming the butt of his pistol into his temple. Hart saw the horror in Fox’s eyes. His friend turned pale when the meth-head’s hand shook so hard it rattled Hart’s cheek. His finger hovered recklessly over the trigger.