Page 2 of Strays
Shane leads, Jay takes rear and I stay in the middle, Glock steady in my hands, held low but ready as we cross to the east wing.
The door gives under Shane’s hand with a faint click. Inside, backpacks and books are scattered across the hallway. We move through the ground floor, clearing corners, checking every intersection. The silence is absolute, that kind of quiet that makes your breathing sound too loud.
We reach the stairwell.
Shane holds position at the base of the stairs while I sweep left to check the corner and Jay moves right to cover the opposite side. Once it’s clear, we move, one at a time, weapons up, climbing toward the east corridor.
Room 2-A, 2-B, then 2-C.
The door is closed, the lights off inside. I can hear soft whimpers, and then a harsh voice: “Shut up!”
Jay signals with two fingers, then gestures right — flanking position.
There’s a short row of lockers on both sides of the hallway, just before the classroom door: solid metal, enough for cover if we stay low. I press behind the far locker and Jay takes position beside me. Across from us, Shane drops to a knee behind the last locker on the opposite wall, weapon steady, eyes fixed on the door.
I ease my radio up and thumb the PTT.
“Aegis unit in position. Visual on Room 2-C. No eyes inside. Holding perimeter,” I say, keeping my voice low.
A soft click confirms transmission. No reply, but that’s fine. They heard me.
The noise keeps coming from inside the room: footsteps, sobs, muffled crying. And the same male voice, rough and shaky, keeps cutting through it, barking at them to shut up.
I hear movement at the door. Shane lifts two fingers, taps them under his eyes, then points toward the handle.
I adjust my grip. Jay shifts, slowly and steadily. We wait.
I hear the click of the handle, and the door creaks open a few inches. Then more, and a figure steps out, partially blocked by the frame. He’s got someone with him. From where I am, I don’t get a full look, but I can see a small figure, the top of a head, trembling hands.
And then I see the gun, pressed hard against the side of the kid’s head.
I flatten tighter against the locker, holding my breath. If the shooter sees us, the kid is dead. My brothers also freeze, their eyes fixed through slivers of metal and shadow, waiting for a clean visual.
The man shifts.
From his angle, Shane gets a better line of sight. He lifts two fingers — eyes — then points down the hallway, opposite from our position.
I don’t breathe. Carefully, I shift my weight, just enough to peek past the locker edge, following his signal.
The suspect’s back is to us now, one arm locked tight around the boy’s neck, the other holding a gun pressed to the kid’s temple. He’s pulling the kid away, heading down the corridor toward the stairwell at the far end. There’s a window above the landing, facing the front of the building, and he’s headed straight for it.
From the classroom windows, he could only see the east side, but the sirens were in front. That is where the press will be soon enough. Maybe he’s looking for a way out, but if I had to bet, he’s just checking whether he’s got everyone’s attention.
He keeps dragging the kid toward the window.
My comm crackles in my ear. “Suspect visible from the perimeter. Hostage in front. Do not engage.”
But the boy trips.
I see it happening like it’s in slow motion.
His foot catches on the strap of a backpack on the floor. He steps down, it slips, and his balance goes with it. His body jolts forward, uncontrolled.
I catch the reaction in the man instantly. His head snaps from the window to the kid, his arm tenses, and his finger starts to move on the trigger.
Then, a shot.
It takes me half a second to register it didn’t come from him.
