Strays (Homo Gregalis #1)

Chapter One – The Day We Quit

CHAPTER ONE

The Day We Quit

W hen we pull up to the school, it’s chaos.

Six squad cars sit haphazardly parked along the curb and on the front lawn, their lights still flashing and doors open.

Kids are everywhere, huddled behind cars and sitting on the curb. A few are crying, but most just stare. Parents pull up fast, jumping out of their cars still in pajamas, faces pale. Others rush through the lot, shouting names.

A cruiser’s parked sideways across the main gate in a desperate attempt to block the street, but more parents are already spilling past the tape. Screaming. Holding phones to their ears.

I can see small bloodstains on the concrete among the glass from one of the shattered front doors of the school.

Everywhere smells like fear: sweat, metal, blood.

I scan the building. It’s a low sprawl of red brick and aging windows, standard public school layout: two main wings, three floors, flat roof. No fences, just wide glass doors and open access.

One of the officers crouched behind a cruiser sees us. He taps his radio and points west, toward a cluster of cops regrouping near the side entrance.

We move fast across the lot, heads low, gear tight.

At the center of the officers, a man with silver bars on his collar — a lieutenant — is giving orders. I’ve never seen him before, but the patch on his sleeve reads Greenster Two.

“Finally,” he barks as we approach. “Unit ID?”

“Aegis Unit Eleven,” I say. “Greenster Nine PD.”

He gives a sharp nod. “Alright. Shooter entered approximately oh-nine-thirteen. Multiple shots fired. The suspect barricaded himself in Room 2-C, second floor. Students were already in session. We don’t know how many.”

“Staff?” I ask.

“No confirmation. There’s a report of a body in one hallway, but nobody’s gone in to verify.

The rest of the school self-evacuated; teachers and kids ran for their lives.

You’re the first tactical unit to arrive.

SWAT is six minutes out. Negotiator’s with them.

We’ve got nothing inside, so you’re going in. ”

He steps closer and points to the east wing.

“I want you three to make entry. Get to room, secure the hallway and hold position. No contact with the suspect. No engagement unless SWAT or the negotiator gives the green light. You’re there for recon and support. That’s it.”

I nod once. “Copy.”

“Channel three is yours. Keep it clear.”

We move.

Shane leads, Jay takes rear and I stay in the middle, Glock steady in my hands, held low but ready as we cross to the east wing.

The door gives under Shane’s hand with a faint click. Inside, backpacks and books are scattered across the hallway. We move through the ground floor, clearing corners, checking every intersection. The silence is absolute, that kind of quiet that makes your breathing sound too loud.

We reach the stairwell.

Shane holds position at the base of the stairs while I sweep left to check the corner and Jay moves right to cover the opposite side. Once it’s clear, we move, one at a time, weapons up, climbing toward the east corridor.

Room 2-A, 2-B, then 2-C.

The door is closed, the lights off inside. I can hear soft whimpers, and then a harsh voice: “Shut up!”

Jay signals with two fingers, then gestures right — flanking position.

There’s a short row of lockers on both sides of the hallway, just before the classroom door: solid metal, enough for cover if we stay low.

I press behind the far locker and Jay takes position beside me.

Across from us, Shane drops to a knee behind the last locker on the opposite wall, weapon steady, eyes fixed on the door.

I ease my radio up and thumb the PTT.

“Aegis unit in position. Visual on Room 2-C. No eyes inside. Holding perimeter,” I say, keeping my voice low.

A soft click confirms transmission. No reply, but that’s fine. They heard me.

The noise keeps coming from inside the room: footsteps, sobs, muffled crying. And the same male voice, rough and shaky, keeps cutting through it, barking at them to shut up.

I hear movement at the door. Shane lifts two fingers, taps them under his eyes, then points toward the handle.

I adjust my grip. Jay shifts, slowly and steadily. We wait.

I hear the click of the handle, and the door creaks open a few inches. Then more, and a figure steps out, partially blocked by the frame. He’s got someone with him. From where I am, I don’t get a full look, but I can see a small figure, the top of a head, trembling hands.

And then I see the gun, pressed hard against the side of the kid’s head.

I flatten tighter against the locker, holding my breath. If the shooter sees us, the kid is dead. My brothers also freeze, their eyes fixed through slivers of metal and shadow, waiting for a clean visual.

The man shifts .

From his angle, Shane gets a better line of sight. He lifts two fingers — eyes — then points down the hallway, opposite from our position.

I don’t breathe. Carefully, I shift my weight, just enough to peek past the locker edge, following his signal.

The suspect’s back is to us now, one arm locked tight around the boy’s neck, the other holding a gun pressed to the kid’s temple.

He’s pulling the kid away, heading down the corridor toward the stairwell at the far end.

There’s a window above the landing, facing the front of the building, and he’s headed straight for it.

From the classroom windows, he could only see the east side, but the sirens were in front. That is where the press will be soon enough. Maybe he’s looking for a way out, but if I had to bet, he’s just checking whether he’s got everyone’s attention.

He keeps dragging the kid toward the window.

My comm crackles in my ear. “Suspect visible from the perimeter. Hostage in front. Do not engage.”

But the boy trips.

I see it happening like it’s in slow motion.

His foot catches on the strap of a backpack on the floor. He steps down, it slips, and his balance goes with it. His body jolts forward, uncontrolled.

I catch the reaction in the man instantly. His head snaps from the window to the kid, his arm tenses, and his finger starts to move on the trigger.

Then, a shot.

It takes me half a second to register it didn’t come from him.

I’m already moving when Shane’s bullet enters the back of the man’s skull. The kid’s scream is raw as the man’s body collapses, dragging the boy down with him.

But I’m fast. I lunge, catching the kid before the man’s full weight crashes into him. We hit the floor hard, momentum carrying us forward, my arms around him.

He’s still screaming when I hear Jay’s voice through the comms: “Suspect down. Hostage secured. Request EMS entry.”

A minute later, SWAT finally arrives, and we hold our position until they finish clearing the floor, the kid still screaming, obviously in shock.

The man’s body lies awkwardly in the hallway, blood pooling around him.

Then EMS rushes in and surrounds us, and I hand the kid off, finally silent.

My eyes meet Shane’s, and I give him a nod. We all know what’s coming, but I want to reassure him he did the right thing, no matter what. He nods back, chin held high.

Good.

The lieutenant steps into the hallway, flanked by two other officers, eyes locked on us, disapproval written all over their faces. Shane immediately ejects the mag of his Glock 34, racks the slide, clears the chamber, and hands the gun over, grip first, slide locked back.

The lieutenant takes the weapon and drops it into an evidence bag without a word. Then he looks at us, jaw tight. “Wrap it up. Patrol will take you back to Nine. Your chain of command can deal with you.”

We follow him out of the school building.

The press is already swarming, but now there are a lot more cruisers and officers, and the perimeter’s under control. Everyone is being held behind the tape: reporters, kids, parents, and every kind of gawker you can imagine.

He leads us to a cruiser parked on the lawn, flanked by two officers. All three of us wince at the sight.

I knew they weren’t going to let us drive our own truck back to the station, but I was hoping they wouldn’t cram us into the back of a Ford Interceptor. We clearly don’t fit. Shane’s the shortest of us at 6’5”, and I’m the lightest at 275 pounds.

“Sir,” I start, “could you send only one officer with us so one of us can ride shotgun? Or maybe split us between two cars?”

He doesn’t answer. Just holds out his hand.

“Keys to the truck. Someone’ll take it back to your station.”

My brothers glance at me, annoyed. I get it; even asking was dumb.

Humans don’t care about us. Never have. We’ve been working at the PD for six years, and all the furniture is still human-sized. We’re always crammed into chairs too narrow, crouched at desks that dig into our knees, trying to move through spaces too small for bodies like ours.

We end up bumping into things, knocking stuff over, breaking shit constantly.

They say it’s because we have inferior motor coordination compared to humans, but that’s bullshit and they know it.

They just hate how much smaller they are than us, so they keep inventing stupid theories about why we can’t function properly in those shoeboxes they call offices.

Even our patrol car is a constant endurance test. We take turns sitting in the back, but the front’s not much better.

I sigh and reach into my chest pocket, where I keep the truck keys clipped to the flap, and hand them over.

One officer opens the rear door of the cruiser; the other steps aside like he’s waiting for us to perform a trick.

We don’t move at first.

Then, Shane exhales through his nose. “Let’s get this over with.”

He ducks down. It takes effort. He folds himself in half, shoulder first, twisting to squeeze into the narrow backseat like he’s loading himself into a crate. His knees hit the back of the front seat before he’s even fully in.