Page 26 of One Last Storm
“Sir, I know this guy. I’ve studied his pattern for six months. He’s a trafficker, Chief. Women, drugs, anything that makes money. He’s done negotiating.”
He blew out a breath, his heart thumping. “Listen. He really believes he’s just a businessman. He’s been trying to find an angle, a way to negotiate his way out of this like it’s just another deal.” Dawson stared at the silent house. “And when men like Ravak can’t make a deal, they destroy the inventory rather than let someone else have it.”
Dawson’s voice dropped. “He’s going to kill her, Chief. Because to him, destroying what he owns is better than letting someone else have it.”
He pressed the walkie to his forehead. Please?—
Static filled the silence. Then: “SWAT is two minutes out.”
He wanted to throw something. “C’mon!”
“Hold position, Detective.”
He shoved the walkie into his belt, then pulled out his weapon. Checked it.
Breathed.
Hold. Position.
And then, “Dawson.” Flynn’s voice came through the walkie. “I’m thirty seconds behind you.”
He froze. “Flynn, what are you doing here?”
“Backing up my partner.”
Wait—what about?—
“SWAT is ready,” came the radio update.
He spotted them moving toward the house, and scurried up behind his car.
Please, don’t let anyone die.
Flynn slipped up beside him, breathing hard, weapon drawn, eyes sharp. “Ready?”
She wore a vest, too, so clearly she wasn’t going anywhere but with him.
“On me.”
He stayed low, moved with the SWAT team toward the house.
The darkness hid him, although his eyes had adjusted and the streetlights upon the snow helped.
He reached the front porch. The door was locked, but the wood around the frame was old and warped.
“Breach,” said the Chief.
The SWAT officer stepped forward with the ram. One solid hit and the door exploded inward, wood splintering, frame giving way.
They were inside.
The house smelled like fear and cigarettes and the metallic tang of something that might have been blood. A narrow hallway led toward the back rooms, and light spilled from what looked like a bedroom doorway.
“Ravak!” he called. “It’s Detective Mulligan. We’re here to talk.”
“Too late for talking.” Ravak’s voice came from the back room. “Too late for deals.”
Dawson moved down the hallway. SWAT flanking him, Flynn at his back.
