Page 7 of Come For Me
Chapter Three
“Tap out, stupid bastard.”
“Tap out’s for sissies,” Saint wheezed. Considering Dain had the man’s shoulder pressed into his carotid, cutting off blood flow, getting out a single recognizable word would be amazing—three was a fucking miracle.
“Ten seconds, Saint,” Elliot said nearby, warning the man how much time he had before he was likely to black out. “Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five—”
King swore from the other side of the mat. “Saint!”
Without warning Dain’s captive flipped his long legs into the air, his spine bending in ways that would seem impossible with his neck immobile. But he had the length in his torso to manage. In a blink his knees were on either side of Dain’s head and his calves were locked at Dain’s nape. Before Dain could duck his head to slip out of the hold, Saint flung him over his long body, loosening his legs at the end to keep from breaking Dain’s neck.
“One!” Elliot yelled as Dain’s back slammed into the mat. With a quick kippup, Saint’s massive weight landed on top of him, crushing the air from his lungs without warning.
“Goddamn.” It was Dain’s turn to wheeze.
“Dain!”
The yell from the workout room door brought all their heads up except Dain’s, stuck beneath one of Saint’s bony knees.
“Code Red,” Jack Quinn called. There was no hesitation in their response; all four team members were on their feet and running for the door in seconds.
“Where’s the party?” Dain yelled as they raced after his boss down the hall toward one of the conference rooms. Jack shook his head but didn’t answer, causing Dain’s heartbeat to pick up speed. Jack Quinn was the head of JCL Security, and the man was anything but reactionary; if he said it was bad, it was bad. Code Red was never anything less. They weren’t on assignment right now, though. Had someone else’s op gone sideways?
The four of them packed through the door to the conference room behind their boss. The massive table that dominated the space was empty, but at the end of the room the wide-screen TV hanging on the far wall blared one of the local channels. The sound assaulted Dain’s ears as his eyes adjusted to what was on the screen: a close-up of a female reporter he recognized from the usual early morning newscast holding a microphone to her red lips, the wind blowing her blonde hair into her eyes as she spoke.
“Officer Mays, what can you tell us about the situation? Any updates?”
The camera panned to a petite, dark-haired policewoman Dain recognized as one of the Public Information Officers at the Atlanta PD. “No updates as of yet. We are still establishing communications with the suspects and determining how many hostages are currently in the building.”
“Is the entire building at risk?”
The glint of impatience in Mays’s eyes wasn’t reflected in her words. “Not at this time. All floors except the top have been evacuated. Only the fourth floor suite is involved.”
“Where—”
Dain had barely gotten the word out of his mouth when the camera panned back behind the anchorwoman to the building in question. A familiar building. The one that held Georgia Financial Management Services.
Livie.
No. Fuck no. “Jack!”
His boss stood on the opposite side of the table, the office phone to his ear, but he jerked it down to tell Dain, “I’m trying to find out. Hang on.”
The blonde was speaking again. “For those who are just joining us, would you please recap what is known at this point?”
Officer Mays nodded. “We received a 911 call this morning alerting us to a situation at Georgia Financial. Responding officers determined that gunmen were present, as were employees we believe are being held hostage. Negotiations are forthcoming, and in the meantime, we have asked the public to avoid this area until the situation has been resolved.”
“Do we know how many hostages are inside? How many gunmen?”
Mays’s face revealed nothing. “Not at this time. We want to assure the public that the APD will do everything possible to resolve this situation. The safety of the hostages and of our citizens is of paramount concern.” With a nod at the camera, Mays walked away.
As the anchor promised more information soon and tossed the segment back to her cohort in the studio, Dain fought for breath. “King, I want to know what they know,” he barked.
“I’m on it,” King said roughly behind him before rushing from the room. Their PR liaison knew everyone who was anyone at the Atlanta Police Department. Dain gave his team member’s assurance an absent nod, his gaze still fixed on the television, the screen now showing the local studio and the male news anchor who normally had the blonde sitting next to him. Dain couldn’t remember his name and didn’t care. He picked up the remote and muted the chatter.
“Elliot,” he snapped.
The only female member of his team stepped to his side. Her petite stature forced her to look up at him, one eyebrow quirked in question. Worry clouded her eyes.
