Page 65 of Strays
Jay rests his forearms on the table, his eyes on her. After a long silence, he finally speaks. “Maybe this just means you’re finally the person you want to be, instead of the version he tried to shape you into.”
“That’s not something to be ashamed of,” he adds. “That’s something to be proud of.”
I hate her parents without even knowing them.
That night, when we go to the nest, she cries. We hold her and hum for her again while she sobs. None of us speaks for over an hour. When she finally does, her voice cracks. “You know what the worst part is?” she whispers. “I feel guilty, like they’re right. Like our life is something wrong. Something dirty. And sooner or later, I’ll be punished for it.”
It stings, but I understand.
From what she’s told us about her family, her father always wanted her to pretend she was human. Growing up like that, it was never easy for her to accept who she really is. The fact that she embraced our bond the moment she saw us proves she’s strong; she had to overcome everything she believed for most of her life to do it.
Shane gently takes her from Jay’s arms and turns her to face him.
“How can this be wrong, Jo?” he asks softly. “Our love for you makes us happy. Makes us whole. And I think it makes you happy and whole too.”
It’s the first time any of us says love out loud. I think it startles her, her breath catching a little and her dark eyes going wide. “You’re right,” she says, burying her face in his neck. “How can it be wrong if we were meant to be together?”
She doesn’t mention her parents for the rest of the week, and we don’t push. She tries to act normal, but there’s a shadow behind her eyes and a permanent lemon note in her scent.
On Thursday, over dinner, she brings up the barbecue: she’s decided to do it this Sunday. She tries so hard to smile, to keep going, but we can all see how broken she is.
Friday morning, I can’t focus on the briefing. All I can think about is her. She’s already carrying so much; I know she’s close to her breaking point. I just keep hoping no one at the hospital pushes her any further, because one morething might be too much.
I shake my head, trying to keep my mind on Sergeant Wilsbone. My brothers must sense my agitation, because the air shifts, filled with soothing pheromones.
I breathe them in and let the edge soften.
Wilsbone keeps talking, tapping a laser pointer against a satellite image projected on the wall. A small single-story house on the corner of a residential block, with a chain-link fence and a patchy yard.
“Target’s name is Malcom Greenes. Felon out on parole. Suspected in at least two recent gun transfers. The last warrant was for possession with intent to distribute. He’s been off the radar for weeks, but a neighbor called in last night. Said she saw lights flickering, heard yelling, maybe a gunshot. The house has a standard three-room layout. No second floor. No basement.”
It sounds routine.
Fontes leads Entry Team One with Jay, Suttas, and Krieger. Shane and I are with Entry Two at the rear, along with Beckett and Rivas. The perimeter team is already on site, staged around the block to cut off escape routes.
“Comms stay open,” Fontes says. “Don’t break formation. We go in quiet, standard pincer. No cowboys.”
We roll out in two black Tahoes. Half an hour later, we park two blocks away from the target address, behind an overgrown lot. The rest we do on foot.
The place comes into view: small, with paint peeling from the siding. Entry One move up along the left side, cutting across a neighbor’s yard to reach the front. Shane and I follow Rivas through a narrow alley toward the back, Beckett on our heels.
Jay’s voice crackles through the comm. “Team One in position.”
We move slower now, with guns up. Patchy grass overgrows the cramped backyard. There’s a rusted grill near the steps and a broken folding chair tipped on its side. The rear door is wooden, painted green, cracked and splintered around the lock, like it’s been forced open more than once.
Rivas raises a hand, and we stop.
Then it starts.
First, it’s just a low growl. Then a bark. But it builds fast, coming from the other side of the house. I can hear the dog’s claws scrambling against the floor, hurling itself toward the front door like it wants to take it down, barking like crazy.
In the middle of it, I hear another movement. I don’t know if the humans can hear it, but it is definitely the sound of human steps, rushed and fast.
Jay’s voice comes through the comms again: “Target’s moving. Surprise is gone.”
Fontes responds quickly. “Front and rear units, fall back to cover. Perimeter, hold your positions and cover all exits. We’re switching to containment.”
We back off the rear steps, and I catch sight of Jay’s team doing the same upfront, moving laterally along the fence line.
