Declan repeated. “Are you all right?”
“Can’t breathe,” her voice sounded.
Declan dragged the top man out of the way and then the other. Blood soaked the woman’s gray suit, though she showed no signs of open wounds or ripped clothing. Declan assumed the blood wasn’t hers. When she tried to sit up, he touched her shoulder. “You might want to lie still. You could have an injury from being handled so roughly.”
“I’m all right...no broken bones... I just need to...sit up.” She pushed to an upright position, her hands covered in the blood of her captors.
Declan glanced through the front windows.
Police vehicles surrounded the van, and men in SWAT uniforms rushed toward them, rifles aimed at the van.
“The police have arrived,” he said.
“Thank God.” The older woman wiped her hands on her skirt, leaving bright red streaks. Then she pushed the gray hair back from her face and squared her shoulders, a frown pulling her brow downward. “Do you think they know these terrorists have been stopped?”
“We can’t bank on it. They might take one look at me and shoot.”
Her eyebrows shot upward. “But they can’t. You saved my life.”
“You in the van, come out with your hands up!” said a voice amplified by a bullhorn outside.
“Coming out,” Declan said. “Don’t shoot!” He reached for the door handle.
The gray-haired woman touched his arm. “Let me go first. Surely they won’t shoot me, and I can let them know you’re one of the good guys.”
Declan shook his head. “You never know when one of them might get trigger-happy. I’ll go first...with my hands up.”
“At least let me open the door so they will see your hands up.” The woman grabbed the handle and pulled back, opening the door slowly. “Don’t shoot,” she called out. “We’re unarmed.”
When Declan stepped out of the van, he held his hands high.
“On your knees!” a voice boomed.
Declan dropped to his knees.
“Hands behind your head.”
Declan laced his hands behind his neck.
The man with the bullhorn called out, “Anyone else in the van, get out now, hands in the air.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Declan could see the gray-haired woman step out of the van, her hands held high, her hair disheveled and blood smears on her gray suit.
“On your knees. Hands in the air,” boomed the man with the bullhorn again.
“I will not go down on my knees in this skirt. Never mind, my knees can’t take that kind of brutality.” She started to drop her hands, but must have thought better of it and held them higher. “My kidnappers have been disabled and are in the van behind me.” She nodded toward Declan. “This young man saved my life. I expect you to treat him well.”
“Ma’am, you need to get on your knees,” a SWAT officer said from behind the door of his vehicle.
Declan glared at the man. “She’s not the problem.”
“Silence,” the SWAT guy said. “On your knees.”
“Oh, for the love of Pete.” The woman dropped her arms and eased herself to the ground, on her knees.
“Hands in the air,” the SWAT team leader commanded.
“Pushy bastard, aren’t you?” the woman said.
A chuckle rose up Declan’s throat. He swallowed hard to keep from emitting the sound.
The SWAT leader motioned for his men to close in on the van. Once they ascertained the other men inside the vehicle weren’t a threat, they dragged them out on the ground and laid them out in a line.
The other van had been stopped before it had gone two blocks. The men who’d been inside were lined up on their knees, being handcuffed.
Several SWAT team members approached Declan with their rifles pointing at Declan’s chest.
He didn’t dare move or breathe wrong. With a vanload of dead men, they would assume the worst first and check the facts later. Declan couldn’t blame them. Not with the woman bathed in blood.
“I told you, this man saved my life,” she was saying. “Treat him well, or I’ll have your jobs.”
“It’s okay,” Declan said quietly. “I’ll be all right.”
“You’d better be,” she said with a frown. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you properly.”
A man grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm down behind his back. Then he pulled the other one down and bound them with a thin strand of plastic. Once they had him zip-tied, they yanked him to his feet and patted him down thoroughly, removing his wallet and dog tags. “Declan O’Neill, you’ll have to come with us.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me why I’m being detained, and read me my Miranda rights?” Declan asked.
“We will. On the way to the station,” the man closest to him said.
“I left my backpack with a bystander. I’d like to get it before we leave for the station.”
Before Declan finished speaking, the SWAT team leader was shaking his head. “I’m sorry. But you’ll have to come with us now.”
“You don’t understand.” Declan stood still, resisting the pressure on his arm. “That backpack is all I have in this world.” Geez, he sounded like a pathetic homeless character. Then again, he was homeless.
The SWAT team leader nodded to one of his guys. “Find the man’s backpack.”
One of his men peeled out of the group and walked toward the bystanders on the sidewalk.
Forcibly dragged, Declan had no other choice but to go with the officers. He was shoved into the back seat of a police service vehicle, and then the door was shut in his face.
Without his backpack, he had nothing. Absolutely nothing. It contained his last bit of cash, a couple changes of clothing and photographs of him and his Force Recon team before they’d either been killed or split asunder. His phone was also in his backpack. It contained the numbers for his friends. He couldn’t remember any of them off the top of his head. He’d never needed to commit the numbers to memory. They’d always been in his phone directory. Now he wished he had taken the time to learn the numbers.
His heart hurt as the vehicle pulled away. He twisted in the seat and stared back at the crowd, searching for the blond-haired woman. He didn’t see her or his rucksack. The man who’d gone looking for it was on his way back to the rest of the SWAT team...empty-handed.
His
