Page 66 of Strays
But it’s too late.
A window by the porch explodes open, gunfire ripping through the air. Short, fast bursts aimed low and tight, right where Jay had been seconds ago.
I hear shouting on the comms, someone yelling, “Shooter! Window right!”
Jay’s team scrambles for cover, ducking low behind a trash bin and the corner of the porch. I can’t see him clearly, just motion, flashes, the glint of his rifle. My pulse spikes, like it always does when one of us is in the line of fire, but this isn't our first time, and Jay’s fast and smart, so Shane and I stay focused on getting to cover.
We move toward the neighbor’s yard, aiming for the low cinderblock wall along the property line. It’s enough to shield us while keeping eyes on the house.
But then, another window lights up. On the opposite side of the house, a second shooter opens fire from a side room. Wood splinters fly and bullets tear into the siding.
Fuck.
The intel was wrong. There’s more than one motherfucker inside.
We keep moving toward the neighboring yard, but then I see Jay. He’s crouched behind a porch post, completely pinned down. With gunfire coming from both sides of the house, he has nowhere to run, no good cover, nothing but timing and luck keeping him alive.
Fontes is right beside him, saying something on the comms, but I don’t care about orders or what else he’s trying to say. The second I see my brother that close to taking a bullet, my mind blanks.
I lock eyes with Shane, just for one second, then we move.
Rivas tries to grab my arm but misses. Beckett says something, but it doesn’t matter.
Shane and I sprint back to the rear steps. He hits the door first. One kick, and the splintered frame gives way. I’m inside the house in half a second, Shane right on my heels. We move fast through the narrow hallway, straight to the front, no time to clear rooms.
The shooter is crouched low by the front window, half-hidden behind a couch. I don’t think he even registered that we had entered the house. One of his arms is braced against the sill of the window, finger on the trigger. Despite his partial cover, I can see the angle of his elbow, and that’s enough. I don’t think; I just shoot.
The bullet punches through his elbow, and he jerks back, howling, the rifle clattering to the floor.
Shane and I back into the hallway fast, moving in reverse to keep our eyes on the living room in case the guy reaches for the gun or the second shooter shows up. My heart’s still hammering, but the relief is already flooding me. All I needed was to make one of them stop firing so Jay had a clean opening to move.
We go out the same door we came in and sprint back across the backyard toward the neighbor’s fence. The second shooter’s still firing from the opposite window, but we stay below his line of sight.
I can see Jay, now crouched with Fontes behind a parked car across the street, rifles up, out of the shooting zone. Suttas and Krieger are with them too, eyes locked on the house, waiting for the next move. Only then do I realize we didn’t see any dog inside the house. It probably got scared and hid when the shooting started.
I hear a few more shots from the side window, and then silence.
Fontes’ voice in the comms is a little unsteady. “All teams, hold perimeter. Do not advance.”
Backup units roll in at the far end of the block; it's full containment now. But even before the cruisers come to a stop, a voice shouts from inside the house.
“He’s bleeding bad! Somebody help!”
Fontes’s voice booms through the cruiser’s loudspeaker. “This is the police. Drop all weapons and come out with your hands up. Medical aid will be provided once the scene is secure.”
Silence.
Then, from inside the house again: “I’ll put him outside so you can take him to a hospital!”
Fontes doesn’t hesitate. “Leave him. The medical team won’t enter until the house is cleared.”
A long pause. Then I hear footsteps and the front door creaks open. Shane and I have our guns aimed at the door when a man steps out slowly, blood streaks one side of his shirt, both hands raised, but he’s still holding a handgun, gripped by the barrel. Every rifle in view snaps toward him.
Fontes shouts again over the loudspeaker. “Drop the weapon! Right now!”
The man freezes. He lifts the gun higher, clearly trying to show he’s not aiming it, but it’s still in his hand.
“Set it down!” Fontes barks. “On the ground. Slowly!”
