Thorne’s head snapped up. Valerie Ross was a twenty-year veteran. She had been shot at in Juarez and had faced down mobsters in Chicago. She did not press the panic button unless a situation had gone catastrophically sideways.
"Eagle One has initiated a distress signal!" the communications officer shouted. "Location: precisely outside the primary target's residence!"
"Did Vance make her?" Thorne demanded, grabbing his tactical helmet.
"Unknown! No audio feed, just the panic signal!"
"All units, move! Move! Move!" Thorne roared into his comms. "Eagle One is in distress! Go loud, get to that location now!"
The staging area erupted into organized chaos. The drivers of the black Tahoes slammed their vehicles into gear. Tires squealed against the asphalt as the heavy, armored SUVs launched forward. Sirens wailed, and hidden red and blue strobes ignited behind the grilles and windshields.
They tore through the quiet suburban streets, a heavily armed convoy flying at seventy miles an hour, ignoring stop signs and traffic lights. Thorne rode in the lead vehicle, his heart pounding against his ribs. If the cartel had recognized Valerie, if she was under fire alone...
"ETA thirty seconds!" the driver yelled, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he drifted around a manicured roundabout.
As they turned onto Oakridge Drive, the massive brick facade of the Vance estate came into view. And there, parked on the curb, was Valerie’s white SUV. Behind it, a single local police cruiser.
Thorne peered through the windshield, his eyes widening in confusion and rising anger. There was no cartel hit squad. There was no shootout. There was only a bald, aggressive local cop standing outside Valerie’s window, his arm raised with a steel baton, preparing to smash her window.
"Target is the local uniform," Thorne growled into the radio, his voice dripping with menace. "He’s attacking Eagle One. Surround him. Box him in. Do not let him move."
Officer Mitchell brought the baton down, fully intending to shatter the driver's side window of the white SUV. But just as the steel was inches from the glass, the deafening scream of sirens and the chaotic screech of massive tires skidding across asphalt shattered the tranquility of the neighborhood.
Mitchell froze, his baton hovering in mid-air.
From the front, a massive black Tahoe jumped the curb, its bumper stopping mere inches from the grille of Valerie's SUV, completely cutting off any forward escape. Simultaneously, a second black Tahoe violently swerved to a halt directly beside Mitchell, boxing him in against the white SUV. A third screeched to a halt behind his own patrol car.
The sheer speed, violence, and precision of the arrival sent a shockwave of primal panic through Mitchell. For a split second, he didn't know what was happening. He thought he was being ambushed by the cartel he had heard rumors about. He dropped his baton and his hand flew to his service weapon.
"Don't even think about it!" a voice thundered, so loud and authoritative it seemed to shake the trees.