She's watching me. Seven years old and she's watching me like I'm supposed to fix this.
thirty-four
Cole
Ilower my weapon. Slowly, hands where he can see them, palms open. Every muscle fights it but the math is simple. His finger is on that trigger and fear makes muscles contract. I shoot, he shoots.
So I talk.
"Escúchame." Low, calm, the voice I used to talk assets through border crossings. "There's a door behind me. You walk through it, nobody stops you. That's the deal."
His eyes are wild, sweat-dark hair plastered to his forehead, and the pistol shakes so badly it clicks against the teenage girl's skull with every breath he takes. Mid-twenties, maybe younger. Someone who ran in here because there was nowhere else to go and grabbed the nearest body to hide behind.
"Mientes," he says.You're lying.Voice cracking.
"Maybe." I keep my hands up, palms forward. "But you've got two choices. Walk out that door, or die in this room. I'm offering you a third option."
His gaze darts past me to the doorway. Back to my face. Back to the doorway. The gun drifts half an inch, then snaps back to the girl's temple.
In my ear, Kade's voice, barely a murmur. "Blade, status."
I can't answer. Can't key comms without moving my hands, and right now my hands are the only thing keeping this kid from pulling the trigger.
"You don't have to die here." I take a half step closer. His arm tightens. I stop. "You're not the one I want. You're not even the one who matters. The man in the suit down the hall, the one shredding files while you hold a gun to a kid? He's the one who put you in this room. He's the reason you're standing here deciding if today's the day you kill a girl."
The hostile swallows. His eyes are wet. Scared, not angry, which is worse.
"Déjame salir," he whispers.Let me leave.
"That's what I'm offering. Gun on the floor. Hands up. You walk. Nobody touches you."
Lying. Damian will have him face-down and zip-tied before he clears the doorway. But the lie only needs to work for three seconds.
His gun hand drifts. An inch. Away from the girl's temple, toward me.
The shot comes from behind my right shoulder.
Mira. She'd positioned herself in the doorway without me hearing her move. The hostile is against the back wall, concrete behind him, victims clustered to his left, clean lane. She put the round through the meat of his gun hand, not the wrist, not the arm. Close-quarters work.
The pistol drops. He screams, grabbing his ruined hand, and Damian is on him before the sound finishes. Face-down, zip-tied, dragged into the hallway like luggage. Mira steps aside to let them pass, then holsters her weapon. Face blank, done.
Kade in my ear, sharp: "Blade. Report."
"Hostage secured. One hostile neutralized, non-lethal. Room is clear." The words come out flat, automatic. Sitrep voice. "Seventeen civilians. Fourteen women, three children. Need medical."
"Copy. Doc's moving."
The teenage girl's legs give out. An older woman catches her before she hits the floor, pulling her into her chest, rocking, speaking rapid Spanish into her hair. The girl doesn't make a sound, just shakes.
I holster my SIG. Raise both hands where the rest of them can see. Seventeen faces still pressed against the far wall, waiting for the catch.
"We're not here to hurt you." Gentler than anything I've said all night.
Nobody moves. Nobody believes me yet. I wouldn't either.
Give them time.
Movement from the group. A small body breaking free before anyone can stop her.