Beside Max, Brooks clenched his jaw. “We need to get inside,” he said softly to Alvarez.
The uniformed officer didn’t look back or ask what was going on. In fact, he never took his eyes off the man on the other side of the screen door. “Three seconds, Mr. Wallace.”
Wallace cursed and pushed open the screen door, stepping aside to let them in.
“This is bullshit!” he said as Max and Brooks led the way inside the house. Two seconds later, Max heard Zane and Diego come in through the back door.
“Where the hell did they come from?” Wallace groused as the pair walked into the living room.
Max ignored the man, focusing his attention on the four scared people sitting on the couch. The woman was probably in her midforties, but the lines of stress and tension around her face made her seem older. Her face was pale and her eyes unfocused as she gazed distantly at a spot on the carpet in front of her. Even with everything going on around her, she never looked up.
The two girls, one maybe thirteen, the other a little younger—ten or eleven—were sitting close together, clinging to each other in a heartaching gesture of mutual support. The younger one had her face buried in her sister’s shoulder, refusing to look at anyone around her. The older girl was gazing around the room at all of them but refusing to make eye contact. It looked like she’d been crying recently and had dried her tears only seconds before Max and the others had come in.
The boy, who couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen years old, sat there with a bloody dishrag wrapped around his right hand, his face tight with pain. Like his sister, he refused to make eye contact with anyone around him. Max had worn that same look on his face when he was a kid back in Vegas. It was the look of someone who believed he was all alone in the painful world he was living in.
Max knew right then that the woman and her kids weren’t going to say a word about what had gone on here today. But as he slung his M4 over his shoulder and headed for the injured boy on the couch, it wasn’t difficult to figure out what the hell had happened. The boy’s bleeding hand and the broken top of the glass coffee table in front of the couch said it all. Something—or someone—had knocked the boy down hard enough to put him through the glass. The boy’s hand had almost certainly been damaged as he attempted to stop his fall.
Max stopped to glare at Wallace over his shoulder, rage that he hadn’t felt in a very long time building up inside him again. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt his fangs slide out a little. As if on cue, his claws began to force their way out, too.
Turning, he strode toward the big man before he even realized what he was doing. He had no idea what he was going to do when he reached the piece of shit in front of him, but he promised it wasn’t going to be pleasant for the bullying asshole. He knew he’d told Gage that he’d keep it under control, but he couldn’t. Not after seeing this scene that was so achingly familiar to him.
The asshole was oblivious to Max, instead telling Alvarez that his son was a klutz who’d stumbled over his own feet and fallen onto the coffee table. Max barely suppressed a growl. He didn’t care that he was on the verge of losing it completely. Someone had to do something to stop this.
Suddenly, Brooks was in front of Max, forming a wall he’d never be able to get around while at the same time providing a calming presence to allow him time to get it together. Max fought down the rage, forcing his body to retract his claws and fangs before anyone saw them.
“Go check on the boy,” Brooks said softly. “I need to know if we have to call the paramedics.”
Max took a deep breath and nodded. Based on the blood seeping through that rag around the boy’s hand, some kind of medical attention would be needed. He threw one more look at Wallace, then walked over to the boy. He shoved the remains of the glass coffee table aside with his boot, noting blood on some of the larger shards. Yeah, the kid had definitely gone through the table hand first.
“The kid’s fine,” Wallace complained as Max moved closer. “Don’t coddle him.”
The look Max threw the man was enough to make the guy go pale. Even Officer Alvarez lifted a brow.
Dropping to one knee in front of the boy, Max caught his eye. “Hey,” he said softly. “My name is Max Lowry. I’m going to take a look at your hand and see how bad it is. You okay with that?”
The boy didn’t meet his gaze. Max understood that. If you never looked people in the eye, they could never see the pain you were in. Max didn’t push but simply waited patiently.
After a few seconds, the kid finally looked up only long enough to shake his head. “I’m good. It’s not that bad.”
“Mind if I look anyway?” Max asked.
The boy shrugged but held out his hand.
Max slowly and carefully unwrapped the towel. Why weren’t Trey or Alex here? Everyone on the SWAT team had basic first-aid training, but those two were certified paramedics who were qualified for crap like this.
There was one long gash across the boy’s palm and another starting at the heel of his hand, running up the inside of the wrist for a good three or four inches. The older girl leaned over to peek, but then quickly looked away, tears pooling in her eyes. The boy’s mother never looked up from the imaginary spot on the floor she was focused on. Max had seen that expression before, too. It was that of a woman who had given up on everything and everyone.
Max cautiously moved the boy’s hand this way and that, checking for severe bleeding, as well as ligament, tendon, or muscle damage. That slash along the wrist worried Max, but even though fresh blood seeped out, there was nothing to indicate any arterial damage. The cuts didn’t look deep enough to affect the use of the kid’s fingers, but Max wasn’t a medic. He knew one thing for sure, though. The boy would definitely need to see a doctor to treat these.
“He’s going to need stitches,” Max told Alvarez.
“That’s bullshit!” Wallace bellowed. “It’s just a scratch.”
Max ignored him and turned back to the boy. “What’s your name?”
He tried to be as gentle as he could as he rewrapped the kid’s hand, but pressure was the best thing for the wound right now, even if it hurt. The boy didn’t flinch regardless of what Max did. That was a sure sign of a kid who’d been hurt so many times he barely felt pain anymore.
“Terence,” the boy said quietly, his voice giving nothing away as he answered the question. No pain, no feelings, no hope.
