The only word that Greg could use that would adequately describe the situation in the truck was pure and unadulterated chaos. Ed was barking orders and demands into his headphone, scrambling to find a location for the sierra shot; meawhile, monitors were frantically blinking as Spike scurried between screens, pulling up freeze frame images of the subject. Wordy, the calmest of the lot, was recording the latest information into the auto-recorded. But his tone, bitter and icy-cold, relayed his anger and frustration. Leah burst through the side door, striding over to the closest monitor to verify what they already knew.
Greg glanced over to Jules, frozen in the doorway, eyes glued to the video screen. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that she and Sam had been, well, involved. He could see the shock still resonating on her face. He took a moment to rub a hand over his face, pressing his fingers against his eyes. He was trying to stay calm – stay collected. The team needed, now more than ever, to run like the well-oiled machine they were trained to be. They needed him to pull it together. One of their own was in danger.
"Jules." He spoke quietly, under the thrum of voices as the team frantically debated their options and plans. "Jules are you going to be okay?" He asked. Her eyes snapped from the computer screen to his, locking on with laser precision. She gave a deliberate shrug of her shoulders, her lax grip on her gun tightening. It was an amazing thing to watch, Sarge thought as she pulled herself together before his eyes.
"Fine, Sir." Came her low reply. Focus, Jules. You've got a job to do.
"Good." Sarge responded. "Okay team. Team!" He had to shout over the rising volumes inside the truck. "I know this is hard, but we need to treat this like any other case."
"Sarge." Wordy protested. "This isn't any other case. This is Sam." He gestured towards the monitor.
"I know. And I want him to come out safely as much as each of you. But we're not doing Sam any favours by making rash decisions out of panic or fear or anger." Sarge replied. "We need to get all the information before we bust in any doors. Because we all want Sam to walk out of that house."
Silence hung heavy in the truck as the team grappled to contain their emotions and stifle their need for quick and lethal action.
"Wordy. Tell us what we have so far." Sarge commanded.
"We have one gunman – believed to be Anthony Smithson, owner of the grey sedan parked across the street. There are two hostages, one SRU officer Samuel Braddock and one civilian female, approximated age mid-fifties, roughly identified as Barbara Braddock. The vehicle registered to her husband, Henry Braddock, is also on scene. Subject is holding the two hostages at gunpoint in the kitchen. Subject is highly agitated, likely in a state of mental distress."
"What do we know about this Anthony Smithson?" Sarge asked.
"He's former military – very recently former military. His unit was recalled from Afghanistan three months ago following a serious road-side explosion which severely injured two and killed three. He was discharged last month. Appears to have recently separated from his wife – a Katherine Smithson. Works at Branson Publisher Ltd's downtown headquarters. We sent a squad car to pick her up – she may be able to provide inside intel into his state of mind."
Spike scrolled through a screen of data. "Sarge – he appears to Special Ops as well. I'm wondering if this might be personal."
"Why would he go after Sam? Sam's been out for over two years now." Leah asked.
"Spike can you zoom in on the face?" Jules asked, leaning closer to the screen. Something seemed vaguely familiar about the couldn't say where but she could swear she'd seen him before.
Spike nodded, bending over the keyboard. The image magnified.
"Sarge. That's one of his former teammates." Jules tapped the screen angrily. She'd seen him the day she'd gone to Sam's house to check on him – he was one of the men who'd helped haul him inside. One of his army friends.
"How do you know?" Leah asked.
Because Sam told me. Because I saw him. "I recognize him from the team-picture Sam carries around." She responded vague. "Can you patch in Audio?"
Spike nodded, keying in a command that brought the monitor's speakers crackling to life. Sam's voice, low and calm, was a comforting sound to his concerned teammates.
"I just want my fucking life back Sam. It's all fucked up."
"I know, Zeb. I know. This isn't the way you wanted things to go."
"I just … I can't do this anymore. I can't."
"Just talk to me buddy. Tell me what's going on. Zeb. I'm your friend. I'm here to help."
"I can't."
"Yes you can. Just put down the gun, Zeb. We can do this together. Just put it down."
"I can't."
Sarge pushed back the bill of his cap to scratch his head. "Yeah – he definitely knows him. All right. I'm going to try to re-establish communications and get him talking. I need to know what he wants. Jules - I need you to gather intel. I'm sending you out to the base."
He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to protest. "Jules, I need to know where this guy is coming from and you're our best profiler. I need you there. It's only ten minutes away. See if you can pull any contacts at the base – doctors, neighbours, his superiors, whatever you can."
"Sarge, they're not going to tell us anything. JTF2 is top secret. They're going to run hoops around us for hours – days. It's useless. We need to act now."
"Jules, I trust in your abilities to play dirty and kick where it hurts. If this goes poorly, something like this, it could end badly for the forces in the press. Especially so soon after Goodwin Arena. The General has a lot to lose here. Wife and Son being held in what may be his mistress's house? Things could get ugly."
"Leah – cover the wife when she gets here. Wordy, I need you to stand by, prepared for explosive entry. Leah – with Wordy. Spike – see if you can track down General Braddock of Amber Longfield. I want to know about their relationship to each other, the gunman. I want to know who their freaking mail man is. Get me all the information you can."
"Ed do you have the solution?"
"Negative. Get Wordy to bring the heat sensor – we can use it to match up where they are with the video angles."
"Okay. Okay. Just keep in position and we'll see what we can do. Okay, Team One. Lets kick some ass."
... ... ...
It may have been a ten minute ride but Jules made it in five, keeping the Suburban's gas pedal ground to the floor. Sirens sounding, blue and red lights flashing she blasted past civilian traffic, heading north to the base. The base where the Special ops teams were stationed when they weren't on active duty – the base of operational headquarters. And also the base where General Henry Braddock reigned supreme.
"Guys." Spike's voice reverberated in her earpiece. "Cell phone records show that Mrs. Braddock called Sam at 12:58pm. We had to bend a few arms but we've got the audio from the call."
"Patch it in." Jules demanded.
"Jules." Sarge responded, his voice carrying a tone of warning.
"Patch it through. It may be important for me to know. If I'm going up against a General and the Canadian Forces I'd like some leverage." Jules insisted. She wanted – no – needed to hear it.
She pulled her mini-recorder from the glove-compartment, switching it into the on position. She listened stonily – heard the panic and fear. And the love that had clearly driven Sam to run, stupidly, into a hostage situation. He knew better. They all did. But when it was somebody you love sometimes you got blindsided.
Winnie must have phoned ahead because gate security was expecting her. She pulled through the gates and headed for the tall steely-glass headquarters building. She parked amid the line of military jeeps and civilian cars. She jammed the gear into park, yanking out the key as she jumped out of the Suburban.
Apparently the army felt the same because no sooner had she stepped from the SUV than two men emerged from the glossy doors. They were dress in their full service uniforms, the forest green suits' crisp lines articulated by their rigid posture.
"Ma'am." The shorter of the two men addressed her. "The General requests a word with you."
Jules didn't really see a choice. She gave a brief nod and, when they turned briskly, she followed them through the glass doors and into the cavernous maze of army headquarters. She was lead through the concrete twists and turns, up stairways and down long hallways. They came to an abrupt stop in front of an unimposing office door; it looked like all the others on the floor – brown, wooden, non-descript. None of the doors had name-plates – likely a safety precaution. Everyone would know where the General's office was anyway – why bother advertising it any more than necessary?
"The General, ma'am." The man gave a quick rap on the door and, hearing the assent from within, pushed it open.
General Braddock sat behind an immense and immaculately organized desk. Behind him a floor-to-ceiling window allowed him a view of the base. Jules scanned the room quickly, noting the rows of bookselves were loaded with both military tomes of techniques, histories and political theorists, arranged alphabetically by author and subject.
The man was, undoubtedly, Sam's father. It was strange to see his features on another person. His eyes – his hands. The furrow in the brow. It was all the same – except colder. Sterner. She'd asked Sam once, when they were together, what his father was like. He'd shrugged and had merely said 'he's a general'. Now that she was face to face with him she understood, perfectly.
"Constable Callaghan." He rose, stone-faced. "I understand that we have a security situation involving a former member of our special ops unit, former Corporal Anthony Smithson."
"Yes sir." Jules responded.
"I sent for his commanding officer. I trust that I do not have to stress the importance of discretion in this matter. The identities of our Joint Task Force operators are highly secret - a matter of national security. When this goes to the press we expect that his connections to the special ops will not be disclosed. We cannot afford to have the identities of Smithson and his teammates compromised. If this matter had not been reported to the Toronto Police first, we would have dealt with it internally."
"I understand." Jules gritted her teeth.
"We cannot afford this to go to the press and have them portraying our men as crazed killers or dangerous to the public." The General cocked an eyebrow at her – his gaze, the same blue-green as Sam's, unwaveringly boring into her.
Jules nodded. Indeed – the press was an important piece of artillery. She'd use it if necessary.
Another man emerged at the door. He was a rotund man, short in stature, but with small beady eyes hooded by a prominent brow. He was dressed in jeans with dark stains on the knees and a faded Jays' jersey. Jules surmised that he'd been called in from off-duty. His grey hair was cropped short beneath his cap. He looked absolutely harmless which, Jules supposed, was what made him dangerous in all likelihood. A JTF2 Commander would be anything but harmless.
"Come in Colonel Laroque."
"General Braddock. Ma'am." He addressed them curtly. Even in civilian clothes he was entirely military.
"Brief us, Constable Callaghan." General Braddock ordered.
"At approximately 2:20 this afternoon one of your former operators, Anthony Smithson, armed with a .3 pistol entered a residence in Vaughan in took two hostages. Our intel indicates that he was recently discharged from the military. We would like to know the circumstances of his discharge. They may prove vital to our negotiations."
"With all regrets, ma'am, that isn't possible. JTF2 operations are strictly confidential. Protectnig the integrity of that information is tantamount to national security." Laroque responded cooly.
"I understand, however, it's clearly a factor in his mind-set. Unless we're able to connect with Anthony and are able to understand what's motivating him we're not going to be able to de-escallate him."
"We regret that we are not able to be of more assistance." Laroque's eyes narrowed.
"Our team has a man inside, being held at gunpoint by one of your officers. Any information you have on his mental state is absolutely essential."
"I'm sorry, Constable, but we aren't able to do anything." General Braddock responded.
"This is your son." Jules hissed. "This is your wife."
General Braddock frowned.
"Excuse me?"
Jules mind went blank. Shit. She had to backpedal. New plan.
"Please clarify." General Braddock demanded, leaning forward across his desk. His nostrils flared with anger.
"I was told by our liason that you were informed of the situation." Jules stated carefully.
"Yes. I was informed there was a hostage situation involving a former special ops agent."
"Smithson followed your wife to 203 America Ave today. Is that address familiar? It should be. Financials show that you wired the house's owner, Amber Longfield, ten thousand dollars last month. And five thousand the month before. Isn't that intresting." She leaned in until they were nose to nose.
"Smithson followed her there. He broke in. She called Sam. Listen." She set the recorder on the desk with a thump, jabbing the play button.
"Mom? Mom what's wrong?"
"Sammy. Please. He's got a gun. I don't' know what to do. He's got a gun. I think he's going to shoot. I .. Sammy. Oh god."
"He wasn't armed. He was going to CFB Trenton to say goodbye to his old teammates – so he didn't bother bringing his gun. So when he ran into that house today – to save his mother, your wife – he was running in blind and unarmed. He knew that the man inside had a gun. He knew that it was dangerous. And he did it anyway. Because he is a brave man – somebody who cares more about other people than himself. He must have gotten that from his mother, because the man I see before me today is a coward." She hissed.
"And if you can't find it in yourself to help your son and his mother than you can go screw yourself. I'll find somebody who will. I'm going to walk out that door and you better pray that nothing happens to them. Because if something does, well, I think you'll find that information about both your financial interactions with Ms. Longfield and this little incident will find its way onto the front pages of every single major newspaper across the country." Jules waited a beat before turning on her heel to brush past Laroque, out the office door.
"Stop." Jules bit back on her grim smirk of satisfaction. She glanced over her shoulder, hand braced on the doorknob.
"Yes General Braddock?" She asked, lifting an eyebrow.
He looked at Laroque, who opened his mouth, protest forming on his tongue. The General's stern expression had the man choking back his excuses. "Sit down, Constable Callaghan. We'll tell you what you need to know."
... ... ...
AN: Hey guys - First off - I had to do some geographical bending in this chapter. Bordon isn't really that close to Vaughan. But, really, it's fanfiction, right? How geographically correct do I really have to be right?
I know some of you are looking forward to the Sam/Zeb stuff - so head's up. That's going to be coming up in the next chapter. I think. Maybe. Hopefully it'll live up to your guys' expectations. Anyway - I really hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Drop me a line and let me know.
