1
Sean didn’t think. He didn’t worry about the consequences. He simply saw the threat and reacted.
He’d seen the suspicious guy lurk into the stadium midway through the fourth inning. The man looked like any other middle-aged guy attending a baseball game. He wore a cap, the team jacket bulging out around his belly, and jeans that had seen their fair share of washings — the blue almost faded completely.
He wasn’t, however, an ordinary man attending a baseball game.
From the moment he sat down at the end of the aisle — two rows ahead of Sean and in the adjacent section — he’d acted oddly. No one else had noticed; at least it didn’t seem that way. Everyone’s attention was focused on either the game or their concessions: beer, nachos, and that old American staple — hot dogs.
The primary reason Sean even noted the man was that the game was half over and the guy was just showing up. Who comes to a baseball game halfway through it?
To be fair, he hadn’t missed much. The Braves were losing by two, and the home crowd was already growing restless.
Sean had watched as the guy looked around, checking to his left and then his right as he eased into his seat. It was almost as if he was looking for someone. Maybe he wasn’t sure if he was in the right row. Whatever the reason, Sean’s instincts had kicked in immediately.
He’d spent the last few innings half watching the game while he kept an eye on the guy. When the seventh-inning stretch began, he realized what the man had planned.
The guy in the jacket looked around nervously. Sean watched as the man reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol, keeping it close to his chest as he stepped toward the railing only two rows away.
Sean had only taken a few karate classes in his youth, though he’d been in his fair share of brawls in high school and college. Trouble had a way of finding him, much like it was now. Fortunately, for the last six months he’d been through one of the most rigorous training programs the U.S. government had to offer — a program that only graduated 5 percent of the people who went in. His senses felt heightened. His muscles tensed.
None of the other fans seemed to see what was happening. The security guards that lined the edge of the field were looking up into the stands, but they were spaced in such a way that the gunman approaching the front row blended in with the rest of the crowd.
Sean charged down the steps, giving no thought to his personal safety. The man pulled out his weapon and took aim at the first baseman, whose back was turned as the team warmed up for the bottom of the inning. There wasn’t any time to think. Sean leaped from two rows away and sailed through the air. As the man’s finger tensed on the trigger, Sean’s shoulder plowed into his lower back. The jarring blow caused his hand to flail in the air as the weapon fired, sending the round off into space to land somewhere — hopefully harmlessly — outside the stadium.
The momentum from Sean’s flying tackle sent both of them toward the brick wall separating the fans from the field. The gunman’s body protected Sean. The gunman, however, had no protection — and being caught off guard, was unable to react fast enough to brace himself. His face smacked against the top corner of the wall, shattering the cheekbone below his eye. Dazed and suddenly in agonizing pain, he dropped the weapon and grabbed his face. A gash had opened up in the skin and oozed crimson through his fingers. Sean worked hard to stay on top of him, holding on to the writhing gunman like he was roping a calf in a rodeo.
“Freeze!” a voice commanded from nearby.
Sean released the man and kicked the weapon away while still straddling him. He slowly put his hands up.
Two police officers were pointing guns at the man on the ground, each with menacing expressions on their faces.
The closest security guard hopped over the wall and grabbed Sean under the armpits. He pulled him up a few steps and held on.
“That guy had a gun,” Sean explained.
“Just let the cops do their thing.”
Another police officer descended the steps with a radio in hand. The crowd of fans in the closest two areas were in a panic and flooding out to the aisles as far away from the gunman as they could get. The players were being ushered to the opposing team’s dugout for safety.
Sean bit his tongue and watched as the police cuffed the gunman and dragged him up the stairs and out onto the concourse.
One of the cops stopped and questioned the security guard. “What’s this guy’s deal?”
Sean knew better than to chime in. If he’d learned anything about cops, it was to speak only when spoken to. Sean could have been arrogant, especially given the fact that he’d just saved the first baseman’s life. Or he could have played the I have security clearance you’ve never even heard of card. Instead he let the guard answer for him.
“This guy took down the man with the gun. I’m just holding him here to make sure you all didn’t think he was part of the problem.”
The cop, a guy probably in his midforties, narrowed his brown eyes as he assessed whether or not the guard was right.
“That true, son?”
Sean nodded. “Yes, sir. I noticed the gunman walking toward the field during the seventh-inning stretch. When he reached in his pocket, I rushed him.”
It wasn’t like Sean to sound so submissive. But in this case, he’d prefer to give the cop whatever info he wanted and get the heck out of Dodge. Too many people had seen him as it was. No question he’d get grief about it when he got back to the office in the morning. If it took that long.
“So you’re just a good Samaritan, doing his part to help the world?”
Something in the cop’s tone carried a barb of sarcasm.
Sean ignored it and remained respectful. “Yes, sir.” He grabbed his shoulder and winced, faking an injury. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to go take some ibuprofen. I hit my shoulder pretty hard when I tackled that guy, and it’s getting sore. Am I free to go?”
The way the cop was deliberating caused Sean a degree of concern. Of course he hadn’t done anything wrong, but he also knew how cops were when it came to protocol, statements, reports, and all that nonsense. Sean was getting the overwhelming feeling that not only would he be missing the rest of the game, he’d also be heading downtown to give some kind of testimony.
“I’ll take care of this one,” a female voice interrupted the tense moment.
Sean cautiously twisted his head around. Most of the fans had already cleared out and were stampeding their way down the concourse. Alone on the steps a few rows back was a woman with light brown, shoulder-length hair. She wore a gray business suit and looked the spitting image of a corporate CEO. Her fingers clutched a foldout with a government-issue identification card inside. The cop couldn’t see all the card’s details from his vantage point, but apparently he saw enough to know when to back off. At least from questioning her ID’s validity.
“What are the feds doing here?” he asked. He put both hands on his hips. “We already got the gunman in custody. What do you want with this one?”
The woman took a few steps down the stairs toward the three men and slid her foldout back into a jacket pocket. Sean let a sly grin escape and crease across his face.
“This one,” she said, “is one of ours. He’s been tracking that gunman for over a month now. He knew the guy’s plan and waited for the right moment to take him down.”
The cop was perplexed by the tale but couldn’t find an argument for it. “You mean this guy is one of yours?”
Sean couldn’t hold back his instincts any longer. “That’s what the lady said. Now if you don’t mind,” he looked down at the cop’s badge, “Officer Wilkins, I’m going to go see if I can get our suspect out of police hands and into federal custody. So thanks for screwing up and costing me at least a half a day.”