It took Hunter a second to recognize him. They’d met before at least once. Hunter was sure it was in a function somewhere, probably at last year’s LAPD’s Purple Heart award ceremony. His name was Scott Bradley, the youngest brother of Dwayne Bradley, the Los Angeles District Attorney. But worse, Hunter also recognized the person standing behind the chair, holding an electric kitchen carving knife.
Despite all his suspicions, Hunter could barely believe his eyes.
One Hundred and Twelve
Captain Fallon and new recruit, Neil Grimshaw, were SWAT-team Gamma. Their task was to enter the house through the large French doors on the veranda that led into the house’s main bedroom. With the curtains shut, they had no way of knowing if the room was empty or not, and, if it was occupied, how many were in there, or if they were carrying any weapons. Surprise and speed were their trump cards.
Grimshaw blasted the doors’ lock with a single shotgun shot, sending a shower of broken glass up into the air, and splintering the wood. Before the glass hit the ground, Fallon had kicked the doors open and entered the house, his trained eyes taking in the entire room at once. There was a built-in wardrobe on the left, a double-bed mattress on the floor, pushed up against the wall directly in front of him, a small portable TV on top of a sideboard to the right, and a large mirror on the floor with tens of already cut lines of what could only be cocaine. A naked man with a bushy ponytail was on the mattress. His back was towards Fallon. The moans of pleasure from the petite, short-haired blonde girl who had her legs around him quickly became frightened screams. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen.
The man didn’t even turn. Still with the girl’s legs wrapped around his hips, he rolled to the left and reached for the Uzi submachine gun that was resting against the wall.
He didn’t get there.
Fallon squeezed the trigger on his MP5, and the gun coughed silently once. The shot hit the back of the man’s hand as his fingers were just a couple of inches away from the Uzi. The blast shattered bone and ruptured tendons, sending a red mist of blood into the air and spraying the girl’s face.
The man let out a pained cry that sounded like an injured animal’s roar. His arm recoiled back towards his chest, spraying more blood onto the girl’s body and the mattress.
‘Moving isn’t such a good idea,’ Fallon said, his red laser target beam now locked onto the back of the man’s head.
Grimshaw was also in the room by now, his laser target coloring the girl’s chest with a red dot. He was concentrating so hard he didn’t notice the door to the en-suite bathroom opening behind him.
The blast from the shotgun was deafening, and it was aimed directly at Grimshaw’s back. He took the full force of the impact, sending his MP5 flying from his hands, and propelling him forward before he collapsed to the ground.
Fallon had sensed the danger and had started turning before the shot was fired, but he didn’t get there in time. In slow motion he saw the plume of smoke that came out of the 12-gauge shotgun, and Grimshaw taking the shot to his back. Everything else came automatically. Fallon was the best close-quarters marksman the LA SWAT had to offer. He’d been through thousands of simulations, and hundreds of real-life scenarios just like this one.
He saw the shotgun barrel start to move again, re-aiming at him. He locked eyes with the shooter for only a millisecond; despite what he saw, there was no hesitation. He squeezed the trigger, and this time his gun coughed twice. Both shots entered the center of the target’s forehead almost millimeter perfect, exiting at the back, leaving a hole the size of a small apple, and splattering gray matter, blood and fragmented bone across the wall.
The girl holding the shotgun looked even younger than the one on the mattress under Ponytail Man. She had an innocent, schoolgirl’s face, with dimples and freckles on her cheeks. As she fell to her knees, her sad, almost tearful eyes had no more life in them, but they never left Fallon’s face, until she slumped forward, hitting the ground.
The man on the mattress took advantage of the distraction and reached for his Uzi for the second time, but his left hand was out of action. That forced him to twist his body and reach for it with his right. He grabbed the gun, but the position he was in was no good. He had to turn his body around the other way to be able to target Fallon. There was no way that would happen fast enough. As soon as he started turning his body back the way he came, Fallon’s aim was back on him.
‘Drop it,’ Fallon shouted, but the man was screaming in anger as he rotated his body, thirsty for blood.
Another squeeze of the trigger from Fallon, another double shot. Both hit Ponytail Man in his right shoulder, fracturing his clavicle and scapula bone before he could aim the Uzi. His arm went limp instantly.