Hate Crime

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1 I should feel something more, Mike thought, as he squeezed one eye closed and pressed the other against the scope. Some twinge of reluctance, or regret. A tightening in my gut, a chill at the base of my spine. A tingling beneath the short hairs on the back of my neck. But . . . All he felt was the strong and unmitigated desire to complete his mission, to do what he had come to do. If the man would just come a little closer to the window, I could blow his head off, he mused. And would. With pleasure. Major Mike Morelli of the Tulsa PD Homicide Division pulled his eye away from the reticle and wiped his brow. The world was a different place, viewed through a sniperscope. After three hours of micro-scrutinizing the apartment walls, the windows, the shadowy figures that passed just out of range, he saw everything from a new perspective. It was all deceptively larger, closer, and, as a result, it conveyed an urgency that Mike was having difficulty subduing. He wanted those bastards so badly. If he could rip out their jugulars with his teeth, he would. The cloud cover barely allowed the sun passage. Here on the street, behind the barricade, there was a distinct coolness in the air, one Mike felt in the marrow of his bones. He had not expected this sort of weather and had not dressed for it. Even his trademark trench coat, a carryover from his younger days when he thought it gave him the stature and credibility his youthful face did not, was insufficient to warm him. It was a gloomy Oklahoma day, the perfect mirror for what he was feeling inside. With something between a grunt and a sigh, Mike returned his eye to the scope and prayed for a clear shot. C'mon, Mr. Kidnapper, give me a chance. Come to the window for a breath of fresh air, just a tiny bit closer. I'll give you a view you'll never forget. "Move back!" a man shouted from the darkness of the apartment, his electronically amplified voice sounding more desperate with each word. "Move back or I kill the kid!" He'd been shouting like that off and on since the siege began, always frenzied, always violent, and always just out of range. "I mean it! If you're not on the other side of the street in one minute, I'll ventilate him!" Mike heard the personal radios surrounding him crackle to life, and a few moments later they were all moving back. Again. Hour twelve of the Sequoyah Heights siege. Progress made: zero. Mike's finger rested ever so gingerly on the trigger guard, never past the safety. But if he thought he had a shot, he'd pull that trigger so fast the SOT team and their professional sharpshooters wouldn't know what happened. He knew he could do it. He could sense the electricity surging through the stock into his shoulder. He could feel the cold steel and smell the leather strap. He had the power of life and death in his hands. But the only part that interested him at the moment was death. He wanted to pull that trigger so badly. Just give me half a chance, he murmured to himself. Just half a chance. "Are you checked out for that weapon, Major?" Mike eased away from the rifle, laying it on its side. Party's over. "Yes, Special Agent Swift, I am. As a matter of fact, I'm checked out for about every kind of weapon there is. But I was only using the scope to surveil the apartment." And if you believe that . . . "Just making sure. Don't want any screwups on my watch." Her watch? When the hell did this become her watch? That was the problem with Feebiesone of several. They couldn't cross the street without trying to take charge. "Our first priority is getting