The screen door cracked open like a gunshot.

  The sound ripped across the yard with a sharp, violent snap that hooked straight into my instincts. My entire body reacted before my conscious mind could catch up. Muscle memory took the lead, dragging me into a low crouch behind the cruiser door. My back pressed against the cold metal frame as both hands rose into a firing stance. My finger rested along the frame, steady and disciplined, ready for the slightest shift. My eyes narrowed, scanning through the thin slice of shadows behind the doorframe, watching for the movement of a hand or the glint of steel.

  Threat assessment. Male. Female. Armed. How many.

  Every question flicked across my mind with machine precision.

  The target stepped into view, and the questions fell away.

  Not a threat. A victim.

  A woman stumbled onto the porch with a frantic, stuttering gait that lacked any semblance of coordination. She looked like she had run headfirst into terror and bounced back out of it. She had to be in her late sixties, maybe early seventies. Her gray hair hung loose and tangled, as if she had been clutching at it while panicking. Her house dress was wrinkled and stained, clinging to her in a way that made her look smaller. Her eyes darted from me to Kira, then back again, the frantic flicking motion reminding me of someone drowning underwater and searching for an air pocket.

  "Hurry," she cried, her voice shattered and raw. "They are in the living room. Please."

  The last plea cracked in the air between us. It felt like it hit me in the chest. Her desperation carried a weight that made my knuckles tighten around the grip of my pistol.

  My heartbeat steadied itself into the familiar rhythm it always found during moments that teetered between chaos and procedure. The world dissolved into clean lines. Entry points. Cover. Movement lanes. The pathway to the house narrowed in my mind into a diagram of risk.

  Kira took an instinctive half-step forward, her empathy snapping her toward the woman before her training could anchor her down. Her hand reached out, fingers softening, ready to comfort. Ready to heal. She was a natural caretaker, and I loved that about her. But compassion got cops killed just as easily as cruelty did.

  "Wait," I said sharply, my voice low but slicing through the tension.

  Kira halted instantly. She turned her head, her hair brushing over her cheek as she gave me a look caught between frustration and obedience. Her foot hovered above the gravel, suspended in the air as if she had walked into an invisible barrier. Then she stepped back, eyes lowering slightly in acknowledgment. Good partner. She trusted me to take the lead.

  I kept my pistol angled down in a low-ready stance, maintaining control without threatening the civilian. The old woman collapsed against the porch railing, her breath hitching in short bursts.

  "Ma'am, before we enter, I need to ask you some questions," I said, keeping my tone steady and firm. "Are there any weapons inside the residence? And how many people are inside?"

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  For a moment she looked bewildered by the questions, as though she could not understand why I was not already sprinting through her door like an action hero diving into a burning building. She blinked at me through her tears, stumbling mentally over the idea that procedure still mattered.

  Her panic surged again. "My son needs help now." She reached out with both hands, as if she intended to grab my uniform and drag me bodily inside the house.

  I did not step back, but I did not give ground either. "I am sorry, ma'am. But until we understand what is happening, we cannot enter blind. What happened to your son?"

  As she reached toward me, her sleeve slid back.

  The gash caught my eye instantly.

  A deep, jagged scrape carved itself across her forearm, the edges torn and swollen. Fresh blood streaked downward, already tracing thin lines over the purple bruise blooming beneath. The discoloration extended almost to her elbow. The combination was unmistakable.

  Fresh injury. Impact. Possibly defensive. Possibly accidental.

  Something violent had happened inside that house.

  Her face tightened in agony as she spoke. "My son, Michael, was acting crazy," she said between sobs. "I was trying to talk to him. He pushed me toward the cabinet. Not on purpose, I think. But he pushed me. And Jonathan had to shoot him."

  The word shoot rang inside my skull like a hammer against steel.

  The world did not just shift. It snapped.

  This was no longer a welfare check on a panicked elderly woman. This had become a possible domestic turned weapons incident. A potential homicide in progress. An armed subject might still be inside, frightened and unstable.

  My pistol rose again almost on instinct. The sights aligned with the dark rectangle of the open doorway. The yard flattened into a tunnel that framed nothing but potential threat. Next to me, I heard the faint rustle of Kira lifting her own weapon. She had locked her emotional conflict behind her professional mask. Her stance matched mine without hesitation, forming a perfect two-person wedge.

  The old woman stopped short, her eyes locked on the muzzle of my gun. The flicker of primal fear in her expression struck me harder than the initial shock of the situation. She recoiled, hands raising defensively.

  "It was a tranq gun," she sputtered, desperate to reassure, desperate to stop us from firing. "Not a real gun. A tranquilizer."

  The words froze my mind in place.

  Tranq gun.

  Like tranquilizing livestock.

  The transition from armed shooter to agricultural equipment was not a jump my brain appreciated. The mental gears ground violently, trying to reorganize the situation. I lowered the pistol slightly, confused frustration swirling through me. Kira stayed locked, covering the doorway with perfect discipline. At least one of us kept our tactical clarity intact.

  I gave her a small nod. "Hold position."

  She did not speak, but I felt her acknowledgment, as if the air itself shifted in response.

  "What do you mean you tranquilized your son?" I asked as I advanced slowly. Each footstep pressed evenly into the gravel. My posture balanced ready movement with calm presence, aiming to de-escalate without sacrificing tactical awareness.

  Martha shuffled closer, tears spilling freely. Her hands twisted together in front of her, fingers wringing so tightly the knuckles stood white.

  "He was crazy," she cried. "Shouting about monsters eating our cows. He had a knife. He was waving it. Jonathan was scared. He could not calm him down. So he used the tranquilizer we keep for the animals."

  Monsters eating cows.

  The phrase hit me like a drip of ice water down my spine.

  The same word Howard had used to dismiss this call. The taste of burnt coffee and failed lunch plans was suddenly very bitter on my tongue.

  I finally reached her, placing what I hoped was a reassuring hand on her trembling shoulder. The thin fabric of her house dress was damp with sweat. Right now, her panic is as dangerous as any weapon in that house. Panicked civilians make bad decisions.

  My gaze was fixed past her, on the dark screen door that led into the unknown. "Where are they, and how many people are in the residence?" My voice was slow, even, a deliberate attempt to cut through her panic and ground her in the simple, concrete world of facts.

  "Just my son and my husband," she said between sobs, her body shaking uncontrollably. "Please, you have to help him. He's not breathing right."

  Not breathing right. Medical emergency. Clock's ticking.

  "The gun?" I prompted, needing to know where the weapon was before we crossed that threshold.

  "My husband still has it," she gestured weakly toward the house with a trembling hand.

  Armed civilian in a state of extreme stress. Unknown medical emergency. Potential additional threats. Perfect.

  "Okay," I said, my hand giving her shoulder a final, firm squeeze—half comfort, half command. "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. Her weapon came up to a high ready, finger along the frame, eyes scanning over the sights.

  She was ready.

  Time to see what fresh hell is waiting inside.