I tilt my chin towards the fourth floor and holster my flashlight. “Possible home invasion. A second call came in, with a neighbor reporting screams and a struggle coming from Unit 4018. Noted an open window, and the fire escape ladder is down.”
Kline grunts, nodding in understanding, and falls in step beside me. We both draw our weapons from our holsters and cut across the lot towards the back entrance, dimly lit by a dying lightbulb. With my free hand, I grip the handle and yank. The steel door ricochets off the wall with a metallic bang that echoes up the stairwell.
The door slams shut behind us as we breach the entrance.
Inside, it’s colder. The smell of damp concrete and mildew clings thickly. The overhead lights flicker and hum as we stand at the base of the stairwell. Guns raised, we start the climb. Each step echoes off the walls, boots clanging against the metal treads, the sound multiplied and carried upward like it doesn’t want us sneaking in quietly.
By the time we hit the fourth floor, my pulse is hammering steadily in my ears. The hallway stretches long and narrow, lined with faded green doors. The air is heavier up here, damp, sour, and pressing down on us, stenched with marijuana, mildew, and stale cigarettes.
I signal Kline with two fingers, sending him down one side of the corridor to cover while I move toward 4018. The door frame is scarred, paint peeling off in ragged curls, and the brass numbers dulled to a greenish brown.
I press myself to the wall beside the door, straining to hear anything.
Nothing. No voices. No footsteps. Just silence, thick and waiting.
Kline leans close, his whisper barely audible. “You hear that?”
I shake my head, keeping my voice low. “Too quiet.”
I thumb the mic on my vest, speaking softly but firmly.
“Dispatch, 2-L-17 and 2-L-21 are at the apartment. Attempting contact.”
“Copy, 2-L-17,” Dispatch replies, voice steady over the static. “Proceed with caution. Additional units en route.”
I swallow the dryness in my throat and glance at Kline. We nod once, then I raise a fist and knock hard—three deliberate raps that vibrate through the door frame.
“Police!” My voice booms down the hallway, sharp, commanding. “If anyone’s inside, make yourself known!”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Then, a soft creak to my left. An apartment door cracks open, a sliver of light spilling out. A woman’s face peeks through, her eyes wide.
“Ma’am, I need you to go back inside,” I tell her, firm but not unkind.
“I was the one who called,” she whispers.
“Once we know the scene is cleared, an officer will get your statement. Please go back inside.”
She hesitates, then nods, retreating quickly. The door shuts with a muted click, leaving us in silence again.
Every nerve in my body thrums like live wires. I shift my stance, gun low but steady as I turn my attention back to apartment 4018, readying to breach. My eyes meet Kline’s, and I give him a nod. Together, we move.
I draw back and kick hard. The frame splinters as the deadbolt rips free, the chain lock snapping loose and scattering gold-painted links across the tile. The door slams back against the wall with a violent crack.
Two things hit me first as we breach the entryway.
The sharp, metallic stench of blood.
SIXTEEN
EMILIO
Blood splattersacross the cream-colored walls, a grotesque pattern painted in wide arcs that glisten under the thin light bleeding in from the kitchen to my right and the pale flicker of the television in the living room. The air is heavy with the sharp, metallic stench of it—so thick I can taste iron in the back of my throat.
At the center of the living room, a body lies crumpled in a pool of crimson. The blood has seeped into the wood grain, spreading outward in dark rivulets that reach for the furniture like grasping fingers.
I force my voice steady as I key my mic, though my pulse hammers in my ears.
