Ian and I trailed behind, sending down a lot of other scared civilians after radioing ahead that we were sending them out of the halfway house. They’d need protection too.
By the time we made it to the third floor, SWAT had already swept it, hyperefficient, leaving two men to guard the stairwell as the rest of them breached the door to the roof. Half of them were outside already, and I could hear gunfire being exchanged. More kids huddled in the hall and peeked out of rooms.
“Javier Valencia!” Ian yelled.
From the second to last door on the right, a kid stepped out with his hands raised above his head. “Please don’t shoot!”
“Federal marshal,” I shouted. “I need to take you to Lucy.”
“Lucy?” he asked hopefully, taking a step forward.
Another kid grabbed his arm to stop him, whispered something, and Javier froze. “How do I know you’re a marshal?”
Turning slowly, I reached down and lifted my parka so he could see the badge on my belt. “I’m sorry the marshals in Texas didn’t listen to you and your girlfriend.”
He raced down the hall to us and didn’t stop until I lifted a hand to slow his approach. I was surprised that he slowed but walked right up against my open palm.
“It’s okay, kid,” I said gently, putting my hand on his shoulder as he started to shake.
His face scrunched up like he was ready to cry, and I understood at that moment that both he and the girl he loved were younger than they looked. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. Let’s go see her.”
“All of you,” Ian yelled, making sure his voice carried. “Let’s go.”
Seeing Javier trust us was all the rest of them needed. They poured out of the rooms carrying purses, backpacks, and messenger bags. Ian went first, passed the two SWAT guys stationed at the top of the stairs, followed by the kids, thirty counting Javier, and I brought up the rear.
Even moving as fast as we were, the story came out, the kids explaining in staccato bursts of information. The gunmen were friends of the guy who ran the house. They were just supposed to be passing through, but that was a month ago. They were making homemade bombs, dealing drugs to fund the operation, and stockpiling weapons. No one knew what they wanted, but they had called themselves environmental extremists.
“But they sold drugs, man,” one of the kids said. “That’s not right. Right?”
He seemed honestly confused.
“No, it’s not,” I agreed, reminding them to stay together, remain in single-file formation, and to hurry up.
We made good time and were met at the bottom by a throng of uniforms. We waited along with everyone else for SWAT to subdue the gunmen on the roof. None of the common areas were safe until they did which meant that entering the courtyard or going out the front was off limits.
There was smoke on the roof and minutes later we were given the all clear.
Chicago PD corralled the kids and loaded them onto a prison transfer bus while Ian walked Javier back to Agent Spivey and Lucy.
She squealed when she saw him; he rushed forward, and there in the middle of everything, they were passionately reunited. I doubted either of them could breathe with how tight the lip-lock was.
Once Ian pulled them apart, Javier looked around and said absently, “I don’t remember that guy.” Ian and I both saw him at the same time, one of the kids we brought down from the third floor—and he was carrying a handgun.
Before I could yell a warning to the officer loading up the second bus full of kids, Ian holstered his gun, flew forward, and tackled the guy from the side, hitting him hard, making a hole in the middle of the line. Ian landed all over him, wrestling him to the ground as several uniformed police officers ran forward, weapons drawn, shouting out orders for Ian to freeze and put his hands on top of his head.
“Federal marshal!” I yelled, bolting toward my partner, terrified for a second that they were going to shoot Ian even as they started lowering their guns after seeing the back of his parka.
When I turned back to check on them, Lucy and Javier were smiling at me.
“You see,” Lucy said brightly, “We’re already helping.”
I put them both in the car, started it up, and turned on the heat so they could snuggle in the backseat and stay warm while I got out again to wait for Ian.
Ian passed off the gunman and joined me at the car where I was leaning against the roof.
“What?” he sniffled, squinting at me.
“What’s the procedure, Ian?”
“When?”
“You see a guy with a gun: what’re you supposed to do?”
“Oh for crissakes.”
“What,” I repeated firmly, “are you supposed to fuckin’ do?”
“You yell ‘gun’ and pull yours.” He was exasperated and I could hear it in his voice.