How to Save a Hero [ManxMan]

Prologue

[AN: This is the FOURTH book. Please read the other three before this one. Also, blood trigger warning?]

~Prologue~

Beads of sweat trail down the back of my neck and the gun in my hands feels heavy. It takes a stronger will than mine to keep the barrel from faintly shaking, and when I try to focus on it, the gun shakes more. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, but even my tongue is dry and rough. This may not be my first altercation with a criminal, as I have been on the job for a while, but this is the first time I have had to worry about a hostage, too.

"Let her go," I order, somehow keeping my voice from wavering. I probably should not be making demands in this situation, but I only vaguely remember the week or two that we learned about hostage negotiation.

Where is my partner?

The young hostage looks positively livid, even with the gun pressed to her temple. In fact, I am certain that if the gun was not in the equation, she already would have turned around and kneed him in a very sensitive place. Unfortunately, there is a gun and that puts us both in a rather bad position.

Hurry up, Dave.

"B-Back off," the criminal shouts. If I am nervous, he is downright terrified. And I suppose I would be, too, if I was about to go to jail for trying to rob a no-name store and then taking a hostage when it goes south.

I covertly scan the mostly-deserted gas stop for my missing partner, wondering if I should actually start to worry about him. I know I outran him when we heard the shout, as he is perhaps a little on the out-of-shape side, but he should have caught up by now. "Can't do that," I disagree, trying for the calm approach, but I apparently suck at it, because my voice comes out sounding ragged and unsure.

"I'll kill her," the criminal threatens, shuffling his feet as he hides a little further behind his hostage, who momentarily loses her composure by showing her fear. To my relief, that little slip up is gone a second later, leaving a neutral mask. I thank whoever is listening that she is not the overreacting type. There were plenty of horror stories about officers who had to deal with scared hostages circling around the department.

Though I want to say something cool that will ease the criminal into lowering his gun, like they do in the movies, the only thing that comes to mind is some stupid line that I internally cringe the moment it leaves my mouth. "You're only making this harder on yourself. Put the gun down."

Unfortunately, the wannabe robber only shakes his head vigorously, reminding me why I hate dealing with panicked criminals. Some of them respond well, as their fear makes them more compliant, but then there are guys like this one, who only dig a deeper grave by convincing themselves that they can find a way out of this on their own. Hopefully, that grave will not be the hostage's.

The scruff of shoes on concrete causes all three of us to turn our attention to the left – my left – in time to see a uniformed police officer jump out from behind one of the gas pumps. My partner's sudden appearance is enough to startle the criminal into trying to turn towards the new threat, but in doing so, he loses his hold on the hostage.

Instead of grabbing for her, he tries to point the gun at my partner. Before he can though, Dave tackles the wannabe robber to the ground. As they go down, the gun goes off.

For a heart-clenching moment, I thought Dave might have been hit by the bullet, or maybe one of the gas pumps, but then something hits my right side, causing me to stumble back a step. One of my hands instinctively goes to cover the place of impact, which is now bleeding profusely and turning my dark blue uniform a shade darker.

"Dakota!"

I hear Dave shouting something else, but I only recognize my name while the rest of the words are drowned out by the buzzing in my ears. Somewhere in my head, it registers that I am probably going into shock, but all I can focus on is the darkening spot on my shirt with apathetic intrigue. However, before I can get lost in my own head, a hand is suddenly pressing over mine, forcing me to recognize the pain as it suddenly grows tenfold at the new pressure.

Inhaling sharply, I look at the woman who was only a hostage seconds ago, amazed by the cheerful smile she gives me. "Thanks for the save, Officer...Zito," she says, reading off my nametag while putting more pressure on my side, though not unkindly. It seems she knows something about gunshot wounds. "My name's Heather."

[AN: Ah, yet another book. I hope everyone is doing well!]