Knock knock.
In. Out. In. Out. I breathed, the hot moisture sticking to the fabric that covered my mouth. My goggles were down, my fire selector pointing viciously at the single bullet icon. I tapped my helmet once more for reassurance, the commander screamed in my ear ‘Blue team, go.’
I had trained for years, through the police force, top of the classroom, perfect athleticism, perfect record, all by the books. I became an SFO because I wanted to be the best, I am the best, but even the best can feel the weight of the world on their shoulders. I knew the operation, seventeen hostages, three floors, long corridors and square rooms. The suspects numbered twelve, armed and dangerous, the floor plan we had swept in training for hours and hours prior to the call. Nevertheless, standing outside the door, breaching detonator in hand, my fingers reluctant to squeeze the piece of plastic that allowed hell to break loose. Of course, this was my job, this was what I had trained for, and so I did pull that trigger.
Above me two teams blasted the windows and entered throw the third floor widows, their rappel ropes snapping behind them as they disconnected their lines. My door flew open as the C2 charge ripped holes through the central mechanism and anyone behind it. I raised my SG516 to my shoulder and swung into the room, slicing the pie. My rifle aimed clearly at the corner, the dot hovering over the wall where an enemy could have been, trusting my squad to cover the front and right hand sections of the room. After shouting and receiving the all clear from my allies, they moved forward to the next two doors leading to the next room. My hands steadied with the adrenaline, my vision clearer, my finger sliding back and forth over the trigger guard. Knowing that the enemy was armed and dangerous, that we were told to shoot on site, sent shivers down my spine.
We moved from room to room. Stack up, tap the shoulder, slice the pie. Empty. Empty. Empty.
“One Civilian! Child! Moving her out now!” My wingman dragged a small child out of the wardrobe in which she was hiding as I swiftly covered his exit, my hands steady, my weapon readied. I joined up with the second half of my squad and moved up the stairs, trailing the corner, making sure there was no nook that a muzzle might hide.
We moved to the next door on the first floor, the captain stuck a camera under the door and nodded to me across the door. “Two tangos, armed, two hostages by the sofa on the left.”
He made a quick arm movement and a squad member moved up, flash grenade in hand. “Now.”
The door creaked open slightly, my fears shot back to my throat as projectiles ripped through the door. My teammate threw the flashbang through the door, the white flash crashing through the new holes that painted the wood, before I kicked the door in, gun first. I sliced the pie, as I had been taught to do, moving my weapon past the first target and into the corner, allowing my ally to move up behind me and cover it. My dot lined up with the head of another contact, my eyes scanned its body. Male, mid twenties, shaggy beard, holding his eyes, screaming. Gun. The intel was off. I squeezed the trigger without hesitation, my rifle fired at my command, the lead twisting through the air, howling and screeching, a five five six casing following shortly thereafter. I watched red mist smear the white walls.
I heard a second shot ring out behind me, and a third, as all three tangos collapsed. The two hostages were freed and two of us moved to cover the door and hallway. With no time to process that I had just taken a life, a young life, we moved out and into the next door. Every shout of clear was stressful, the lack of targets even with the gunfire was unsettling, the eventual contact was even more so. We rounded the corner to the next set of stairs, I was following my wingman covering his left angle as a squad member covered my six, when another shot rang out and we darted back to cover, our captain taking the wall on the opposite side. We waited for a break in their fire as bullets scraped the wall and cut through the floor, kicking up dust and shards of concrete that flung themselves towards us with ill intent. My finger closed back around the trigger to return fire as I leaned out of the corner, below my ally’s knee as he did the same above me. Three shots ran out and carved a path through the dust, the recoil hitting my shoulder with an evil thud, the casing that flew to my right pinging off my ally’s helmet, the bolt pulling a new death bringer from my spring-loaded magazine and forcing it into the chamber with a harmonic ring. The dust cleared as more rounds flew through the smoke, revealing the suspects had ducked behind a vending machine that was lying on its side.
“This is the police! Lay down your arms or we will be forced to use lethal force!” I did not duck back into cover. My sights remained trained on that god-forsaken coke machine.
“How is this for lethal-!” The tango did not finish his conversation as I fired my rifle once more, slamming his skull with force, his head jerked backward before dragging his body forward, violently smacking the vending machine before collapsing. The pointman consolidated, rounding the corner, Glock drawn. I backed him up, my rifle aimed over his shoulder, my hand on the other. We reported yet another dead suspect.
“Clear.” He spoke over the comms. The relief washed over me and my allies like a tidal wave.
We kept moving, over comms Alpha team confirmed the deaths of two more suspects and the safe transfer of two hostages, leaving only the second half of the second floor to clear and minutes save the remaining twelve hostages.
The cleared it a door at a time, room by room, finding a few more unattended civilians left in the hurry to defend themselves and their insurance. All that remained were two square rooms.
We stacked up, by the books, as we had with every other door. Tangos were confirmed inside, holding, their weapons aimed directly at the door, leaving us with few options. I was moving in second, the pointman was to take his shorter MP5 around the corner more quickly that I could, giving me space to move in on the two hostiles ahead. The ram came up, Knock Knock engraved on the black metal that coated its exterior.
My teammates counted us in, three, two, one. The door burst open with the force of the ram, a set of stun grenades went in, then we did. I first noticed an issue when the guns did not fire in panic, the two officers either side of me fired their rifles, I concentrated on my target. Glock, Woman, mid thirties, blonde, duct tape. Duct Tape. My mind couldn’t work fast enough, I shifted my shoulder so that my reticule was off centre, my reactionary trigger finger to the sight of the gun pulled the curved trigger. The hammer struck the pin, the gunpowder ignited, the lead flew forward gracefully and elegantly, cutting hair off the side of the woman’s head, leaving a small flesh wound.
“Down!” I screamed, moving directly for cover behind the sofa.
My officers followed, moving for the largest and safest piece of cover they could, though there was little to be found. The en suite door flung open, a man covered with a flak vest and ammo pouches approached, the barrel of a shotgun aimed at the pointman across the room. I wasn’t sure who fired first, but two cracks lingered in the air, and the suspect dropped dead.
No casualties on our side, I breathed a sigh of relief and got to my feet, sweeping the area behind the sofa to find two hostages, sobbing, with their hands crudely taped to the guns ahead of them.
We got everyone out within minutes, the team upstairs reported the all clear, with four confirmed dead suspects.
My first experience as a first response special firearms officer. As the years grew, the city only became more dangerous. As captain of the newly formed Specialty hostage and crisis rescue team, of the year 2037, I prepare once more to march unto the breach.
I pull down my goggles, rack my carbine, and nod at my squad, giving them the order. “Knock Knock.” I say, as he brings up the ram.
