Page 57 of Duty Compromised
This may have started as a search, but it had ended as a rage. Almost definitely because the stabilizer code drive they were looking for—had been told would be here—wasn’t anywhere in this house.
I moved through the living room, weapon drawn and held low, my finger indexed along the frame. The familiar weight of the Glock felt like an extension of my arm—muscle memory from years of training taking over even as my mind catalogued the devastation.
Check the corners. Watch the blind spots. Never assume a room is clear until you’ve cleared it yourself.
The kitchen looked like a tornado had hit it. But tornadoes were random. This was methodical destruction dressed up as bedlam. Dishes hadn’t just fallen—they’d been deliberately smashed, the pieces arranged almost artistically across the wood floor. Every cabinet hung open, contents dumped and scattered. Flour dusted the counters like cocaine at a drug bust. Sugar crunched underfoot, mixing with broken glass in a treacherous carpet.
The refrigerator door hung open, its contents spoiling on the floor. Milk pooled around broken eggs, the smell already starting to turn sour in the warm air. Even the coffeemaker—that ancient thing she’d probably had since college, held together with determination and electrical tape—lay in pieces by the sink, its carafe shattered into glittering fragments.
Whoever tore through here had wanted Charlotte to feel violated. To know that nowhere was safe. To scare her.
My jaw clenched hard enough to make my teeth ache. I’d done this. I’d deliberately made sure everyone at the lab heard me tell Charlotte to take the drive home, my voice carrying just enough to reach the right ears. Or the wrong ones, depending on perspective.
Set the trap. Wait for the rat to show itself.
But I’d expected something subtle—a break-in tonight while they thought she’d be sleeping. Professional. Clean. The kind of thing that might not even be noticed immediately.
Not this systematic psychological warfare.
This was personal. Someone wanted to hurt her, scare her, break her down piece by piece until she couldn’t function. Until she made mistakes. Until she failed.
If Charlotte had been here alone when this had happened…
The thought sent ice through my veins. I’d seen what people were capable of when they wanted something badly enough. The lengths they’d go to. The lines they’d cross. In Afghanistan, I’d watched interrogators break strong men with less psychological pressure than this.
Charlotte wouldn’t have stood a chance. Brilliant as she was with code and quantum physics, she didn’t understand violence. Didn’t know how to read its language or predict its patterns. That innocence—that fundamental belief that the world operated on logic and reason—would have gotten her killed.
I pushed deeper into the house, forcing myself to move methodically despite the urgency clawing at my chest. The hallway stretched ahead like a throat, three doors waiting—bathroom, guest room, Charlotte’s bedroom. The hardwood creaked under my weight, each sound seeming to echo in the defiled space.
I cleared the bathroom first, sliding around the doorframe before entering. Medicine cabinet was hanging open like a scream. The shower curtain had been ripped down, rod bent at an angle that must have taken considerable force.
Clear.
I approached Charlotte’s bedroom last, the door slightly ajar. That was when my body went completely still, that hyperaware state that had saved my life more times than I could count. A soft scrape, barely audible—fabric against wood. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in an empty house.
Someone was still here.
My pulse actually slowed, that combat calm settling over me like armor. Time stretched the way it always did before violence. I could hear my own heartbeat, steady and strong. Could feel the exact weight of the Glock, the texture of the grip against my palm. Could smell the lingering destruction—broken perfume bottles, scattered powder, fear-sweat that wasn’t Charlotte’s.
I took a breath, held it for a count, and burst through the door.
The man on the other side spun toward me, dressed in black tactical gear that screamed professional. Ski mask covering his face, but his body language spoke volumes—trained, ready, dangerous. This was an operator.
He moved fast—faster than I expected. Before I could get a shot off, he lunged, closing the distance with experienced skill. His shoulder slammed into my midsection, driving me back into the doorframe hard enough to knock stars across my vision. My weapon flew from my hand, the polymer frame clattering across the hardwood before disappearing under Charlotte’s dresser.
We crashed into the wall, his forearm crushing against my throat with enough pressure to make black spots dance at the edges of my vision. My left shoulder—the one that had taken a bullet two months ago—screamed in protest as it hit the wall.
Of course. Because a healing gunshot wound was exactly what I needed in a fight with a professional.
I brought my knee up hard into his ribs, feeling the satisfying give of impact through his tactical vest. He grunted but didn’t let go. This guy knew what he was doing. Military training, maybe, or private sector. Either way, he was good.
Too bad I was better. Well, usually. When I wasn’t operating at seventy percent capacity, thanks to some asshole’s lucky shot in my shoulder.
I grabbed his wrist with my right hand, compensating for the weakness in my left, twisting hard while pivoting my hips. Basic physics—Charlotte would appreciate that. Hell, she could probably calculate the exact force vectors involved. He went over my hip in a textbook throw, but instead of staying down like a considerate opponent, he rolled immediately, coming up in a fighter’s crouch.
Son of a bitch.
We circled each other in the destroyed bedroom, Charlotte’s clothes scattered around us like casualties. The intimacy of her personal space made the violence feel more obscene.
