Shattered (Hostage Rescue Team #11)
Kaylea Cross
Chapter One
“Got visual on target. Hundred-and-eighty yards and closing,” Nate’s team leader said quietly from the front passenger seat. His Alabama drawl gave the words an eerily relaxed feel that was completely at odds with the situation, but as a former Delta Force operative, pretty much nothing rattled Tuck.
Seated in the back between two of his teammates, FBI Special Agent Nate Schroder checked his weapon one last time, making sure the M4 was ready to go the moment they exited the moving vehicle.
His pulse accelerated, the rush of anticipation and adrenaline coursing through his body as addictive as the poison their target flooded the streets with. They rehearsed taking down vehicles all the time, but it had been a long time since they’d done a mobile assault in the field, and it was a total rush. He couldn’t wait.
Their SUV sped through the darkened streets, moving to intercept their unsuspecting target ahead. West Englewood was one of Chicago’s worst neighborhoods, riddled by poverty, crime and drugs. This time of night the streets were empty except for the dealers, users and hookers out on the street corners, looking for a sale or a fix.
By morning, more bodies would by lying in the county morgue, the latest casualties in the drug war that raged on these streets. The Veneno cartel’s push to expand their supply within the U.S. had turned half of Chicago into a warzone, and the carnage showed no signs of slowing down.
Nate glanced at the screen mounted on the dashboard, the little red dot displaying their prey on the digital map. Only a few blocks separated them now, and the target had no idea they were coming.
The passenger in the suspect car was a wanted fugitive for a recent triple homicide in Miami, an undercover sting gone wrong that had resulted in the death of a twenty-six-year-old federal agent and the wounding of two others. Two arrest attempts had left three cops dead.
With all other options exhausted, the Bureau had called in Blue Team to arrest Raoul Sanchez.
After an ensuing sixteen-day FBI manhunt to find him and one lucky-ass tip yesterday morning, the hunt had come down to this moment. Except with the vehicle’s darkly tinted windows, they weren’t sure how many people were in the car. Could be two. Might be five. But however many there were, they were armed to the teeth and wouldn’t surrender quietly.
Behind the wheel, Jake Evers kept his foot on the gas and his gaze locked on the road while team leader Tuck navigated as they closed in on their unsuspecting target, a shiny new black BMW. Another SUV holding their remaining three teammates was somewhere up ahead, coming at the target from the west via another street. They would converge in another four blocks, suddenly boxing the suspect vehicle between them and forcing it to stop a split second before the assault began.
“Vance, you ready?” Tuck asked the other vehicle’s navigator via the radio.
“Roger,” the familiar bass voice responded. “In position and waiting on your signal.”
“Stand by.” Tuck monitored the location of the BMW on screen while Nate and the others watched through the windshield, anticipating the moment they turned the corner and finally got a visual on the target.
Nate mentally counted down the seconds as they raced toward the next intersection.
Three. Two. One…
At the corner Evers turned a sharp right and accelerated smoothly without the squeal of tires to give them away. The Beemer was right there fifty yards ahead, its taillights glowing red in the darkness.
“Hit it,” said Tuck.
A burst of adrenaline hit Nate’s bloodstream as Evers floored it, the SUV speeding along the cracked, uneven asphalt in pursuit of their target. An FBI SWAT team and other agents were waiting a short distance away to assist and process the scene once the takedown happened.
But Nate and his boys didn’t need backup for this. These sons of bitches were going down right here and now.
Tuck keyed the radio to contact Vance as the BMW picked up speed. “He sees us. Intercept now.”
“Roger.”
Nate gripped his weapon and angled his body toward the right rear door, ready to burst from the SUV the moment Blackwell threw the door open. His muscles tensed as the SUV carrying the rest of the team screamed around the next corner and barreled toward them.
The BMW’s brakes slammed on with a satisfying squeal of rubber on asphalt.
Evers stomped on the brake, stopping a mere foot from the target’s back bumper.
“Go,” Tuck commanded.
Next to Nate, Blackwell threw the back door open. They were all out of the SUVs in the blink of an eye: seven big, well-trained men with their rifles up as they converged on the Beemer.
Before the occupants had time to react, Nate fired a 40mm gas round through the back window. It punched a hole through the glass and exploded, releasing a cloud of gas into the dark interior.
“FBI!” Tuck shouted, heading for the driver’s door with Blackwell right behind him, and Nate moving to the rear door. The other team was responsible for taking down the passenger side. “Come out with your hands up!”
A split second later all four doors burst open, and a cacophony of gunfire split the night as the occupants unleashed a hail of fire at them. Nate dove onto his belly and returned fire as his teammates did the same.
Dozens of rounds hissed past him, impacting the asphalt and slamming into the front of the SUV. Nate ignored everything but the left rear door, his finger on the trigger.