Page 26 of Rules

No response. The storeroom lights are on and the place is trashed. Clothing and boxes everywhere, racks overturned, some look like they've been tossed against the wall. The small table used for lunches is upside down on the other side of the room. I stepped back out of the shop.

"Charlie Charlie - one Alpha."

"One alpha - Charlie Charlie - go ahead."

"Charlie Charlie - I'm going to need some help here."

"Charlie Charlie - two beta - cancel that, one alpha - I'm right around the corner from your location."

"Ten four, come quietly to the back door."

"Ten four."

I saw Deputy Brooklyn Rogers a moment later. Her eyes went from my face to my gun. She parked her cruiser, got out, and unholstered her weapon.

"What's up?" She asked, stepping in next to me.

"The door was open, the place looked ransacked. I only made it a few feet inside before I stepped out to call."

She took her prepared stance, putting her gun up at shoulder level. "I'm ready when you are."

Together we move as one back into the building. My team and I have practiced for things like this. Little did I know I would need to call on our training. I just filed it away as it was better to be prepared.

As we crossed the backroom, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Something's definitely wrong. Reaching the entrance to the front of the store I can see more disarray, clothing scattered across the floor, mannequins parts scattered around, and the cash register on the floor.

I made eye contact with Brooklyn, "Martha?" I called.

A faint moan from behind the counter draws us. There, crumpled on the polished hardwood, lies Martha Reynolds. Blood mats her silver hair, and her round face is already swelling with bruises. One arm is bent at an unnatural angle.

"Martha!" I kneel beside her, holstering my weapon to check her pulse. It's there—weak but steady. "Martha, can you hear me?"

"Bad guys," she manages, her one good eye fluttering open. "They - they - here."

Brooklyn's on her radio calling for an ambulance and for forensics to be notified.

"Shh, don't try to talk." I pull a nearby stack of jackets over and put them under her head.

Martha's breathing is labored, each inhale accompanied by a wince that suggests broken ribs. As gently as possible, I shift her into recovery position, using a folded sweater from nearby to cushion her head.

"Dark was dark. Then, masks."

"Men in masks," I confirm, the familiar pattern sending anger coursing through me.

Even though I advise her not to speak, she keeps trying. Her words come out in whispers, "begged not to hurt me."

A chill runs down my spine. They're out to cause pain, nothing else.

"Help is coming, Martha. You're going to be okay." Brooklyn calls to her. "I checked the rest of the shop. No one's here."

Outside, I can hear sirens approaching.

Glancing around, I can see into Martha's office. The safe door is closed, I'm guessing even though it's in plain sight, it's been untouched.

Brooklyn steps away and quickly returns with the EMTs. I stood and got out of the way.

She and I walked back into the back room. "Looks like the same M.O. as the others. Extreme violence, minimal theft, probably none."

Ten minutes later, the EMTs drive Martha out of the backroom. "She's conscious, but I'm guessing she has a concussion. Looks like something was used to strike her. She's got a broken arm and multiple contusions too."

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