Instead, he bent down and pretended to scan under the seat. He moved slowly, buying time. His heart pounded as he reached toward his waist, where his police radio was clipped beneath his uniform.
His fingers brushed against the concealed button. One tap. A silent distress signal.
The police dispatch on the other end would receive it instantly. No words needed. They would know that an undercover officer was in distress and needed backup.
The plan was set. Now he just had to keep them both on the bus until help arrived. Tim straightened and dusted off his pants, offering another easygoing smile.
All clear back here. Thanks for cooperating. He turned casually and began walking back toward the driver’s seat.
But he barely made it three steps before the man spoke again. We need to get off. Tim stopped.
Turned back. The man was gripping the little girl’s wrist now, his fingers wrapped too tightly around her fragile arm. Tim’s jaw tightened.
Sorry, sir, he said, keeping his voice light. Gotta keep everyone on board until I get the all clear from my supervisor. The man’s grip tightened.
The girl’s body tensed. I don’t give a damn about your supervisor. The man hissed, his eyes wild now.
Let us off. Now. The tension in the bus shifted instantly.
The other passengers, previously indifferent, sensed the change. Some turned their heads. Others stiffened in their seats.
Tim forced himself to stay calm. If he reacted too soon, if he made a move before his backup arrived, this could turn dangerous. His only option was to stall.
I understand, he said, taking a step closer. But there’s a process we gotta follow, sir. It’s for everyone’s safety.
Safety. The man spat. Bullshit.
He yanked the little girl forward. And she stumbled, barely catching herself. Tim saw the flicker of pain in her face the way she clenched her jaw.
He was hurting her. Tim clenched his fists. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to act now.
But he couldn’t. Not yet. He glanced at the clock above the windshield.
Three more minutes. That’s how long it would take for his team to arrive. Three minutes.
But looking at the man’s eyes, wild, desperate, calculating, Tim knew he might not have that long. And then the man did something that made Tim’s stomach drop. He reached into his pocket.
Tim’s breath hitched. Was it a weapon? A phone to call someone? Something worse? Tim’s body went rigid, his mind racing through every possible scenario. Three minutes.
He just had to hold out for three more minutes. But looking at the man’s shaking hands, his erratic breathing, the crazed glint in his eye, Tim had the sickening feeling that he was about to run out of time. Tim Watson had been in countless dangerous situations before.
But this one was different. This wasn’t a gunfight in an alleyway or a high-speed chase through the streets of San Jose. This was a fragile little girl, her wrist clamped in the grip of a man who was growing more unpredictable by the second.
And now, that man was reaching into his pocket. Tim’s heartbeat slammed against his ribs. He knew better than to react too fast.
If the man pulled out a weapon, Tim had to be ready. But he also couldn’t make a move too soon. The wrong reaction could push him over the edge.
In his peripheral vision, Tim saw the other passengers stiffen. Some of them looked confused. Others sensed that something was very, very wrong.
The little girl didn’t move, didn’t blink. She was frozen, trapped in the silent terror of a child who had learned that even the smallest motion could have consequences. Then, in one sharp movement, the man yanked something from his pocket.
Tim’s muscles coiled, ready to strike. But it wasn’t a gun. It was a switchblade.
A small, rusted thing with a serrated edge that had seen too many years of use. The kind of blade someone might use to gut a fish. Or worse.
Tim’s stomach clenched. The man flicked it open with a click that echoed through the tense silence of the bus. I said.
He growled, his voice shaking with raw nerves. Let us off. Now.
Tim didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Time had slowed.
He could hear every sound. The hum of the bus engine. The sharp inhale of a woman in the front row.
The creak of the seat as the little girl’s body trembled. He had two minutes before backup arrived. But two minutes was a lifetime when a knife was involved.
Listen, Tim said, keeping his voice even. I don’t want any trouble. Then open the damn doors.
The man’s grip on the knife tightened. His fingers were twitchy, his stance unstable. Tim could see it now.
The man wasn’t a trained criminal. He wasn’t someone used to violence. He was desperate.
And desperate men were the most dangerous kind. Tim took a slow step forward, careful not to make any sudden movements. Okay, he said.
You want off the bus? We can figure that out. The man’s eyes darted toward the doors, calculating. He was looking for an escape route.
Tim saw his opening. If I open the doors, you have to let go of the girl, he said. That’s the deal.
The man’s jaw tightened. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face. Tim pressed forward.
You don’t want to hurt her. I can see that. So let’s do this the easy way.
The man hesitated just a second too long. And in that second, Tim moved. With the reflexes honed from years in the force, he lunged forward and grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it sharply.
The knife clattered to the floor, and the little girl let out a sharp, startled gasp. The man snarled, trying to yank free, but Tim had already locked his arm in place. Let her go, Tim barked.