Page 67 of Strays
The suspect obeys, crouching awkwardly and setting the weapon on the porch. He raises his hands again. “He’s inside. On the floor.”
“Step away from the weapon. Keep your hands visible. Walk toward the sound of my voice,” Fontes orders. “Nice and slow.”
The suspect complies, moving down the steps and into custody. Two officers meet him halfway, cuff him, and pull him to safety.
“Sweep the interior,” Fontes says. He looks down when he gives the order, but we know he means us. When there’s an aegis unit on scene, high-risk tactical work like clearing is our job.
Shane and I hold position, waiting for Jay to cross. He breaks from cover fast and low, staying tight to the fence line until he reaches us. We exchange a look, then move together.
We reenter through the same door we broke earlier, clearing room by room in tight formation.
In the living room, the shooter I hit is slumped against the couch, breathing heavily. He looks at us for a second but does not reach for the gun on the floor nearby. He just closes his eyes again, face tight with pain.
Beside him, a scrappy dog stands frozen. Its ribs show through thin fur, with patches missing along its back and legs. The tail is stiff and low, ears pinned flat, and its whole body trembles with tension. It growls low, a sound more vibration than threat. Its eyes are wild, panicked, but locked on us. It's clear it wants to protect the man beside it, but it's still terrified from the shooting.
Blood spreads across the floor beneath the man’s arm. I must have clipped something serious, maybe a small artery, but judging by the volume, I don't think he's in immediate danger of bleeding out.
We can’t clear him with the dog there, so we hold position. Shane stays on the suspect, and I cover the dog. Jay moves slow and wide, circling around the perimeter of the room. His voice stays calm and low. “Easy, buddy,” he says. “We’re not here for you.”
The dog keeps growling, shifting its weight back and forth with small, jittery steps, like it can't decide whether to bolt or lunge.
Jay crouches slowly and extends a hand. The dog flinches and backs up a few steps, unsure. Jay keeps talking, soft and steady, offering his hand to sniff. Step by step, the dog inches forward, still growling, until it finally presses its nose to Jay’s fingers.
Jay strokes its head once, gently, then reaches for the collar. The dog lets out a quiet whimper, tense but not resisting, and stays put as Jay holds it steady.
I move to the nearest door and clear the room quickly. Just a bedroom, empty.
“Clear,” I say.
Jay leads the dog inside, and once it’s in, he closes the door behind it.
With the animal secured, he and Shane hold position, covering the suspect. The gun on the floor is still close enough to matter, so I keep my eyes on the man’s hands as I step in and nudge the weapon out of reach with my boot. Then I crouch and search him quickly, checking waistband and ankles. He’s unarmed.
When we clear the whole place, I call through my comm: “House is cold.”
Fontes’ voice comes back. “Scene secure. Medical team, go.”
Within seconds, the EMTs rush in behind us, flanked by two patrol officers, and we step back to let them work.
Everyone is silent on the way back to the unit.
I get that flashback feeling, like we have been here before. Because we have. Another operation gone sideways, and we have to make a call that saves someone’s life without waiting for orders.
But this time, there was no other option. The life we needed to save was ourown. Losing a brother is brutal. A pack can survive it, but it’s not much of a life after. Like trying to live without the limbs on one side of your body.
Last time, if it hadn’t been for Commander Eneas, we would have been suspended on the spot. Later, we were nearly condemned by the Full Use-of-Force Board. So right now, I’m bracing for the worst.
Back in Greenster, we thought we had nothing left to lose. On the ride back to the PD, I was already planning to file for dismissal and be done with it. But now, everything is different. We have a mate. We are on our way to Special Ops. Our paychecks cover the house and the life we’re building for Jo.
We pull into the parking lot and enter the building in silence.
The second we step into the unit, Wilsbone’s there, arms crossed. “Larsens. With me.”
We follow him down to his office, and he sits. As always, there’s only one chair in front of his desk, so we stay standing.
For a moment, he just looks at us. Then he clears his throat. “Body cam footage hit the server ten minutes ago,” he says. He looks at me and Shane. “You two saved Fontes and your brother.”
That’s new.
