MEXICAN STANDOFF
In popular culture, the Mexican standoff is often portrayed as multiple opponents with weapons aimed at each other, such that each opponent feels equally threatened and does not believe they can strike first without endangering their own life; not only does any initial shot decisively destroy the unstable equilibrium of multiple deterrence, shooting any one person takes one's aim away from the other opponent.--WIKIPEDIA
There were some days Lt. Michael Wyatt hated his job. Most days, in fact. And that night wasn't any different. He'd just about clocked out for the night, his desk was perfectly organized—one of the few in the bullpen that could possibly be considered neat, and he wanted nothing more than to head home, prop up his feet and down a cold beer.
But as head of the DC taskforce for Gang Prevention, rumors of serious gang activity fell under his purveyance. So when the call came in, he had no real choice in the matter. He gathered the half-dozen members of his team that were still in the bullpen, and put in a call for a few dozen more uni's as back up and headed out.
The two calls had originated from the area housing Colley's Bar, a relatively new place that was said to cater to the trendy young professionals. It wasn't the high spot for gang activity, so Michael wasn't all that worried. But the bar owner had called, reporting some of his patrons were being harassed in the parking lot by a large group of men, so Michael would check it out. It was the second call that was more weird, for lack of a better descriptor. Something about FBI agents being harassed. The 911 operator had admitted the connection wasn't that great. Wyatt didn't have a clue what they'd find when they got there. He ordered his men to go in soft, lights off and sirens silent. No sense frightening the participants off before he got there.
What they did find, shocked him.
His car crested the top of the small hill slowly, affording him a perfect view of the Colley's parking lot. In older days, it would have been called a Mexican standoff. No one was moving. Nearly thirty people were frozen in a sort of stasis that immediately caught his attention. His teammate pulled the vehicle to a stop, and they existed nearly one hundred and fifty feet from the tableau. In the center of the action was a group of women, and Michael judged them to be the cliental of the bar. Four stood armed, guns held steady, faces blank, their very stances shouting law enforcement, three stood clumped in the middle, fear and defiance on their faces. Just what the hell was going on?
Half the men turned toward the squad cars, and bolted. But the main players stayed frozen. Only four of the women were armed, and Wyatt's team held their own weapons pointed at them. They encircled the circle encircling the women. It was a strange sight. Wyatt picked up the bull horn and depressed the button. "Lower your weapons! All of you!"
"FBI!" The woman in the front yelled. Her gun didn't lower even an inch. She never looked away from her target. Michael's gaze followed hers. He recognized the man she aimed at, Al Corruthers. Knew him well, had been looking to bust him for years, for that final third strike. And it was evident to him, at least, that Corruthers was high on something, unreasonable. Dangerous. The rest of the bastards were looking a little nervous, and Wyatt didn't expect much protest from them. Corruthers ran with the easily submissive, gave him a dominating thrill to control them. Wyatt was thankful for that right now. It was an explosive situation. But these men weren't true gang members, just easily directed by Corruthers in his dirty work. When faced with real threat—such as the nearly thirty officers now surrounding them, they'd crumble. Wyatt was counting on that. The woman was shouting something else, though she never looked at Wyatt. "SSA Prentiss, badge number…"
He looked to the driver of his car. "Run the number, quickly."
It took less than thirty seconds to confirm the woman's ID. Still, what the hell was going on? "Agent Prentiss, care to explain what's going on here?"
"This bastard thought we wanted to play. Wouldn't take no for an answer. I want them arrested, charged with assault on federal agents, sexual assault, and a whole host of other things." Her voice was husky, firm, and confident. Wyatt didn't hear even a hint of fear. "But we're not lowering our weapons until they're in custody, do you understand me?"
Wyatt took a bit of affront that she'd thought to issue orders to him so easily. He might not be FBI, but he knew his jurisdiction superseded hers in this instance. There was no federal crime in what was done—unless he counted the fact that the victims were apparently federal agents, that was. "I said lower them, lady."
"They're armed, as well." The woman hollered back, still not looking at Wyatt. "And until they're subdued, I. Am. Not. Endangering. My. Friends. Understand?"
The three other armed women nodded, faces tight and severe. They never looked away from their targets, either. These women were professionals. The gang members now stood frozen, only about seven having escaped the circle Wyatt's officers had formed around them. Still, twelve men surrounded the women, and Wyatt could definitely understand the federal agent's reluctance. Any firing done, and the women most likely would be caught in the cross-fire. The leader of the bastards still faced the apparent leader of the women, his eyes never leaving her face. Wyatt didn't trust the smirk on the bastard's face. "I get it, lady, but you're not in charge here. I am. Corruthers, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, I want you're hands on your head, your little friends, too. Then, lady, I want those weapons lowered. Got me? I'm not playing games here!"
"Neither are we! Damned bitch!" The man suddenly yelled, his weapon in his hand. The malevolence in his gaze was directed at the dark-haired woman—as was the gun. Three guns fired then, Wyatt's, Corruthers', and the woman's.
Two people went down. Wyatt's men moved in, quickly subduing the remaining gang members. Apparently they weren't as suicidal as Corruthers. Wyatt moved forward, rushing toward the second fallen individual. Her friends encircled her, attempting first aid. Her blood was flowing quickly from the wound in her upper chest, and Wyatt suspected the bullet had hit an artery. He cursed, ripping his jacket from his body and giving it to one of the dark-haired women at her side to press against the wound. He heard the sounds of the ambulance approaching.
The injured woman's eyes opened, dark and pain-filled. She looked right at him. "Did I get him?"
"Yes. We both did." Wyatt knelt beside her. He ran a quick eye over her, checking for other injuries. Her face was bloodied, something he'd missed in the low light. Her shirt was torn, revealing the edge of an icy blue bra. He throat was covered in red marks and that told its own story. Her hair was straight, but as dark as the night around them. She was beautiful, earthy. He could see why she'd caught Corruthers' attention. She moaned, and Wyatt moved closer, one hand grabbing hers unconsciously.
"Is JJ ok? I heard her scream." She asked of the ice-blond woman near her feet.
"She's fine. She's sitting in a squad car with a blanket." The blond said. "So far, Emily, everyone is ok. Except for you, always playing the hero."
"Z? El? They're both ok?"
"Em—I am right here. Ziva, too." Another brunette said in an accented voice,exchanging worried looks with the others.
"Oh. That's right." Her dark eyes closed. "What about Pen and Abby? They ok?"
"Everyone is fine." Another accented voice said, Wyatt wasn't sure who spoke, but thought it might be the smallest of the women. "You should worry about you, no?"
"So everyone is ok." She nodded slightly, her eyes still closed. "Guess we should have went somewhere else, huh? What are the odds?"
"Not high." The blond said. "Maybe we all have bad karma or something?"
"Or something." The injured woman whispered. "Somebody better call Hotch. He's going to be angry about this one. Won't be able to work for a while."
"JJ already did." Ziva said. "Your boss and team mates are meeting us at the hospital."
"Why? It's not like this is case related?" Her brow furrowed. "Just sort of happened."
"Emily, save your breath." The small one ordered in that strangely accented voice that Wyatt couldn't quite place. "You'll need your energy at the hospital."
She nodded, then her body went limp. No one moved.
Wyatt looked up the hill, seeing the traffic and congestion as it blocked the ambulance's path to the woman. "Son of a bitch! They can't get here! Too many rubberneckers!"
"We need to get her to them!" The little one said again, looking straight at Wyatt.
"Was it a through-and-through?" He asked hurriedly.
"I don't think so." The Hispanic woman said.
"Help me secure her arm." He ordered, the blond removed her jacket and handed it to him. He wrapped it around the injured woman's—Emily's—arm. He used the sleeves to tie it off, putting the pressure on the injury. He slipped one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulders as carefully as he could.
He was thankful she was unconscious. It would have been doubly painful for her if she'd been aware of the movement. He lifted her straight from the ground and carried her up the hill, meeting the EMT's and their gurney two hundred feet from the blood-stained pavement where she'd fallen.
She never opened her eyes.
He held her hand while they rushed the gurney to the ambulance and loaded her quickly into the back. Only then did he release her. He was aware of another blond, this one slightly heavy-set and wearing loud clothing, climbing in the bay with her. Then the doors were closed in his face and the ambulance roared away.
Leaving him behind to clean up the mess.
(So what do you all think of Detective Michael Wyatt? Next chapter, we bring in the clowns!—I mean the teams, of course!)
