Shattered (Hostage Rescue Team #11)(2)
A body fell out of the door. Nate locked on it instantly, caught the automatic weapon in the man’s hand. Nate fired, hitting him in the chest. The guy grunted and fell, but didn’t stay down.
Ballistic plates.
Nate aimed a fraction higher and fired again, this time striking the guy just below the collarbone. He fell with a cry that sounded over the gunfire, the weapon still in his hand.
Tuck was screaming commands at the suspects. Ordering them to put down their weapons and surrender. They’d been ordered to capture the wanted trafficker so the Bureau and DEA could question him before prosecution, but the HRT would take out every last one of these assholes if necessary, because the team’s safety came first.
More bullets erupted from the BMW, and Nate’s teammates returned fire. The second there was a lull in the firefight, Nate shot to his feet and stormed the vehicle with Tuck and two others.
Blackwell had already dragged away the guy Nate had shot and was busy cuffing him, so Nate reached into the backseat and grabbed the first thing he could reach—a meaty shoulder. He twisted his gloved fist in the perp’s shirt, registered the hard strap of a ballistic vest before turning and wrenching the guy out of the vehicle with all his might.
The man hit the road with a thud and lost his grip on his pistol. It clattered along the asphalt but before he could grab it, Nate was on him. Nate slammed an elbow against the side of the asshole’s head, didn’t even pause before rolling him to his belly and straddling his lower body, pinning the thick arms behind the man’s back.
“Fuck you, asshole,” the guy spat, twisting and bucking under Nate’s weight. As soon as the light from the streetlamp hit his face, Nate recognized the goateed and highly pissed-off face of their high value target, Raoul Sanchez. “I’ll fucking kill you, cabrón,” he growled, his dark eyes drilling into Nate’s.
Yeah, not today, amigo. Or any other day for that matter.
Nate didn’t bother responding aloud, clenching his jaw as he fought to hold the strong, enraged bastard still enough to get the flex cuffs around Sanchez’s wrists while his teammates dealt with the other suspects.
Even when he had Sanchez’s hands secured the asshole wouldn’t stop fighting, animalistic roars of rage coming from him as he twisted and kicked in a useless effort to break free. A knee mashed into the nape of the neck solved that, with the added bonus of grinding the side of the asshole’s head into the pavement. Sanchez went still and let out a scream of fury that seemed to echo off the crumbling facades of the buildings along the sidewalk.
Pinned and helpless. Defeated. And about to be thrown into federal prison for a damn long time.
Breathing fast but pumped after the victorious wrestling match and nabbing their HVT, Nate stayed right where he was and finally allowed his attention to stray by looking up. His teammates had four other men pinned and cuffed.
Bauer, the team’s big man, had a guy almost his size pinned to the ground, his posture mirroring Nate’s. He caught Nate’s eye and a big grin split his face, the former SEAL in his freaking glory getting physical with a suspect.
“Who’ve we got here?” Tuck drawled as he came up next to Nate and aimed a tactical flashlight into the perp’s face. Sanchez flinched and clamped his eyes shut, muttering threats and curses in Spanish. Tuck laid a hand on Nate’s shoulder and squeezed. “Nice work, Doc.”
“Hey, Doc. Need you over here.”
Nate swung his gaze over to Blackwell, who knelt beside the perp Nate had shot. The man was stretched out on his back, the front of his shirt glistening in the faint light coming from the closest streetlamp. They all had combat medicine training, but as a former AFSOC Pararescue Jumper, Nate had been given the role of team medic, which he loved.
Tuck waved Nate away. “Go treat Sanchez’s 2IC. I got this.” As Nate eased to his feet, Tuck crouched down to plant a knee in the center of Sanchez’s spine, holding him in place.
His 2IC? They definitely needed him to stay alive.
Nate hurried over and knelt beside Blackwell, who already had a pressure dressing on the wound in the man’s upper chest, both hands stacked to help stem the bleeding. The patient was unconscious from shock and blood loss, but still had a pulse, albeit weak. Someone dropped the medical bag onto the ground beside them.
“Paramedics should be on scene any minute,” Vance said in his deep voice.
Nate nodded, tugging on his latex gloves. Sirens echoed in the distance, signaling the approach of the rest of the taskforce and medical personnel. But this perp needed help now, or he’d be dead before the ambulances arrived. “Anybody else critical?”
“Negative.”
Nate got the large bore IV started in the patient’s arm and pushed the volume expander into his system to buy time. The man had lost a lot of blood but his airway seemed clear, and there was no frothing or bubbling from the wound that would signify a hit to the lung.
Emergency personnel arrived a minute later, and the patient’s vitals were steadier. He’d definitely make it to the operating table. It didn’t matter to Nate whether a patient was a good guy or a bad one, he always did his best to save them, because that was his job and he took his professionalism seriously.
After handing off his patient to the EMTs, Nate stood and peeled off his bloody gloves. All the prisoners had been turned over to the newly arrived agents. Tuck was speaking with other members of the taskforce. Evers and Bauer were busy checking out the interior of the car, while Cruz and Vance checked the hood and Blackwell searched the trunk.