In bed, eyes still closed, Scott breathed in the scent of her strawberry shampoo and reached for her. He’d finally fallen asleep sometime after 4:00 a.m., and his internal clock told him it couldn’t be much past seven now. But he was already craving the feel of her long hair draped around his face, her nails skimming over his back as she kissed him. His fingers stretched across the bed, searching, but all he felt was empty sheets, still warm on her side.
Opening his eyes, Scott glanced around his bedroom. Empty.
He sat up, stifling a yawn, and peered toward the bathroom. The door was open. She wasn’t in there. Last night, he’d strewn both of their clothes all over the room. Now hers were missing.
Cursing, he jumped out of bed. He still felt her warmth on his sheets, so she couldn’t have been up long. Not bothering to get dressed, he hurried through his small bungalow to the entryway.
He lived in rural Virginia, so he didn’t have to worry about curious neighbors as he opened the door and peered outside.
Her car was gone.
Scott stared at the empty drive for a minute before slowly closing the door. She’d actually sneaked out on him. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard her get up. Normally, the smallest noise woke him. But she’d completely worn him out last night. Then slipped away without a word.
He’d had his share of flings, even a few one-night stands, but he’d never sneaked out on anyone. And although he would’ve bet good money that Chelsie Russell had never had a single fling before last night, he was shocked that she’d slunk off.
It probably served him right. All the years of never wanting a serious relationship, and the one woman who’d completely captivated him didn’t want anything real with him.
Still, the knowledge stung. It didn’t matter how stupid it might be to expect something real to develop out of a one-night stand. The fact was, he’d already been planning their first real date, and the one after that, before he’d invited her home.
But he hadn’t made it into the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team by giving up at the first sign of failure. Chelsie’s first day as a negotiator at the Washington Field Office started today. The WFO was less than twenty-five miles from Quantico, where HRT was based, and his sister Maggie worked there. It’d be simple to find a way to run into Chelsie. Whatever her reasons for skipping out on him—probably pure and simple embarrassment over jumping in so fast—he planned to use every ounce of charm he had to get her back into his bed, and his life.
He flicked on the coffeepot as he turned back to his bedroom and was pulling on his pants when his cell phone beeped, loud and insistent.
Scott grabbed it off his nightstand. Triple-eight code. An emergency callout.
His pulse spiked as he yanked on the rest of his clothes, then reached for the gear he’d dumped on his nightstand last night when Chelsie had dragged him toward his bed. He strapped on his holster and picked up his BlackBerry. His tactical bag with his sniper rifle was in the back of his SUV, so he double-timed it out the door as he checked the text on his phone for details.
Active shooter. Location: a community center close to his house. The reported targets: military officers in town for a recruitment booth scheduled to open in half an hour.
HRT was going straight to the site and would set up an immediate command post on the outskirts. The community center was close, so Scott knew he’d beat the rest of his team there. Procedure dictated that he move in as close as he could and set up an observation post. Figure out how many shooters there were, and where they were located. His boss would be close behind him with instructions beyond that.
Scott hopped into his Bureau-issued SUV and sped out of his dirt drive, kicking up dust behind him. As he drove, he called the Special Agent in charge of his team, nicknamed Froggy because he’d come from the Navy SEALs before joining the Bureau.
“What’s the situation?” he asked Froggy.
“Details are still sketchy. Call came in to 911 eight minutes ago. Reports are there’s a long-distance shooter involved, so the locals want us to take it. CNU is sending one of their best.”
CNU was the Crisis Negotiation Unit at Quantico. Typically in charge of training negotiators from the FBI’s field offices around the country, they also deployed with HRT for major incidents. Right now, a negotiator at CNU was probably closer than one from the Washington Field Office.
The negotiator would focus on trying to talk the shooter down peacefully. HRT’s job was to provide a tactical solution if that wasn’t possible.
“You’ll be first on site,” Froggy said. “We’ll be right behind you. According to the eyewitness, there’s only one shooter.”
He didn’t have to tell Scott that what that really meant was they had no idea how many shooters there were. Witness reports were notoriously unreliable.
Barreling down the rural highway toward the site of the shooting, his siren blaring, Scott asked, “How many civilians?”
“Don’t know. The community center wasn’t open yet, but the call came in from a secretary who works there. She and another worker managed to get out of the building and to their cars. She says she thinks the only ones left at the center are the army officers.”
“I don’t suppose they’re armed?”
“I don’t think so.”
The answer was partly good—it meant he wouldn’t have to worry about being shot by a friendly. And it was partly bad—the targets couldn’t protect themselves. Scott punched down harder on the gas and shut off his siren. “I’m less than a minute out.”
“Watch yourself,” Froggy said. “I’ll be there in five.”
Scott had been called to a lot of shootings since he’d joined HRT. Sometimes the shooters were experienced, sometimes they relied on dumb luck and firepower. But the fact that a long-distance shooter was involved meant they were responding with extra caution, especially since he couldn’t be sure there was only one of them.
He drove his SUV to a line of trees outside the community center, slamming to a stop underneath them. Beside him was the back parking lot; he knew there was another lot at the front of the building. As he shimmied into his bulletproof vest and strapped on the extra gear he’d need, the crack of a rifle split the air.
Swearing, Scott stayed low as he went around to the back of his vehicle for his gear, scanning the area as he moved. The shot had come from the front of the center, but that didn’t mean a second shooter wasn’t out here.
He quickly counted ten cars in the back parking lot, the early June sunlight glinting off the windshields. If one belonged to the shooter, that left at least nine innocents.
The back lot was empty of people, which meant everyone was either in the front lot, where the shooting was happening, or inside the building. He hoped it was the latter, but if that were the case, Scott knew he probably wouldn’t be hearing gunshots right now.
Sweat gathered at his temples, but his heart rate stayed steady. This was the job. It never got routine, but HRT practiced with live fire and he’d taken a lot of calls in the past six months. He’d discovered his tendency was to stay calm until it was all over. Then his adrenaline rush would fade and the reality of what had happened would sink in.
Right now, he needed to assess. His gut instinct was that the single shooter theory was right, but he wasn’t going to take that as a given until he’d confirmed it with his own eyes.
Scott yanked his Remington rifle, complete with a custom scope, out of his tactical bag. Keeping low, he raced for the corner of the building where he could peek around to the front and evaluate. Being first on scene, he was Sierra One: sniper position one, closest to the action.
It was exactly where he liked to be, although usually he found the high ground and set up with a lot more care, with the time to scout out exactly the right