“Drop your weapons!” he cried.
Despite his attempts at staying his hand, the gun shook as he pointed it at the two kidnappers. Usually, he was so calm. Not only his job, but his life depended on it.
He wasn’t now. These were dangerous men, and any moment some stray bullet, thrown knife, or careening hook could go flying anywhere. Could hit him. Could hit Marcus.
He couldn’t let these assholes kill him or torture him. He couldn’t let them get away with capturing his best friend.
His face was covered in a hood, but he knew it was him. Everything in this dank room made the world shift into ugly territory, but he knew it was him. It was little things; the clothes, the stance. It was him.
Just as he suspected, the captors fought back. A bullet rushed loudly passed his ear, and he got the shooter in the chest. He was already running as he saw the other man draw his gun, and the bullet missed farther from him. He got him in the second nervous shot he knocked off.
All this happened in seconds. He stood by Marcus. He tore the hood off.
It wasn’t him.