Chapter 2: Chapter 2: People First, Always

The sound was a violation. A wet, tearing crunch that hung in the dead air for a moment before vanishing, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. My pulse kicked into a higher gear, a familiar thrum of adrenaline sending my senses into overdrive as I scanned for threats. My eyes locked on the barn, a weathered red structure whose peeling paint looked like dried blood in the harsh light. That was the source. An unknown variable.

What is happening in there?

Kira’s eyes were also fixed on the barn’s dark, gaping hayloft. Her voice was a low whisper, a tight coil of professional calm that barely disturbed the dead air. “Should we check it out?”

My gut screamed to agree with her. Every instinct I had was focused on that barn, on the predator that had made that sound. But my gut doesn’t write the after-action reports. Rushing an unknown threat while the primary scene was unsecured was how you got your name carved on a memorial wall.

“We check the house first,” I heard myself say, the words feeling foreign in my own mouth, a script I’d been trained to follow. “People first, always. Once we secure the house, we check the barn. But call for backup.”.

Kira nodded, her hand reaching for the radio mic on her shoulder. As her fingers touched the button, a sharp crack echoed from the farmhouse. The screen door had flown open, slamming against the exterior wall.

My body moved without thought, a puppet of a thousand hours on the range. I dropped into a low crouch, the hard metal of the cruiser door pressing into my back. My eyes scanned the empty doorway, searching for the source of the sound.

And then the target resolved. Not a threat. A victim. The woman from the porch, Martha, stumbled out, her frail body moving with a frantic, uncoordinated speed. Her face was a mask of pure despair, her eyes wide and sweeping wildly from me to Kira and back again.

“Hurry!” she cried, her voice shredded raw. “They’re in the living room! Please!”. The last word was a beg, a primal plea that hung in the oppressive silence.

My mind settled back into its familiar calm, the chaos outside locking into the cold grid of procedure. This woman needed help, but rushing in was still the fastest way to get us all killed.

Kira took a half-step forward, her compassion overriding her caution.

“Wait,” I called out, my voice sharp and low. Kira froze, her foot hovering over a patch of gravel. “We aren’t rushing in blind.”

I kept my focus on Martha, my voice firm but even. “Are there any weapons? Ma’am, how many people are in the residence?”

She seemed startled by the questions, her terror momentarily giving way to a frantic confusion. “Hurry, my son needs help now!” Panic gripped every word as she stepped off the porch, her hands outstretched as if she intended to physically drag us into the house.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“I am sorry, ma’am,” I said, holding my ground. “Until we understand what’s in that house, I can’t enter. Tell me what happened.”. My eyes snagged on her forearm as she reached for me, noting an angry red gash and a large, ugly bruise already blooming across her skin.

Her face crumpled. “My son, Michael, was acting crazy,” she sobbed, the words tumbling out. “He accidentally pushed me into a cabinet... my husband… Jonathan had to shoot him.".

The word shoot was a flashbang in my brain, obliterating every other thought. The world dissolved into a tunnel. There was only the woman, the doorway, and the potential threat inside. In a heartbeat, my pistol snapped up from the low ready, my sights finding the dark space of the doorway. Beside me, Kira’s weapon rose in perfect sync, her focus absolute.

Martha’s eyes locked onto my pistol, and she recoiled, a small gasp escaping her lips.

“It… it was a tranq gun,” she stuttered, stumbling back against the porch steps.

Tranq gun? The words were nonsense. They didn’t fit. My mind, which had been neatly categorizing the scene into a “domestic-turned-shooting,” ground to a halt. This situation wasn’t just spiraling; it felt like it had left the planet.

I lowered my pistol back to the low ready but gave Kira a quick, almost imperceptible nod. Overwatch. She held her position, her focus unwavering.

“What do you mean you tranquilized your son?” I asked, my voice level as I began a slow, deliberate approach. My eyes never stopped moving, scanning the dark windows of the house for any sign of a threat. Kira fell in a few paces behind me, her movements mirroring my own.

“He was crazy,” Martha sobbed, tears now pouring freely down her face. “He was shouting about monsters and… and he grabbed a knife. We had no choice.”.

I finally reached her, placing what I hoped was a reassuring hand on her trembling shoulder. Right now, her panic is as dangerous as any weapon in that house. My gaze was fixed past her, on the dark screen door. “Where are they, and how many people are in the residence?” My voice was slow, even, a deliberate attempt to cut through her panic.

“Just my son and my husband,” she said between sobs, her body shaking uncontrollably.

“The gun?”

“My husband still has it,” she gestured weakly toward the house.

“Okay,” I said, my hand giving her shoulder a final, firm squeeze. “Show us where they are. And tell your husband to put the gun on the ground before we enter." I glanced back at Kira. She met my gaze, her expression grim, and gave a single, sharp nod. She was ready.