Chapter 15 Emilio
FIFTEEN
EMILIO
People are fucking dumb.
All it takes is a little bit of rain, and suddenly, half the city forgets how to operate a motor vehicle.
Like clockwork, the first fat drops hit the pavement, and everyone collectively decides traffic laws are more like suggestions, and hey—why not spice things up with a couple rounds of bumper cars?
Since clocking in at 2 p.m., I’ve already been dispatched to three separate accidents.
Three in four hours. Every one of them is the same damn story: slick pavement, careless drivers, and fender-benders that choke intersections like clogged arteries.
No injuries so far, thank God—just a lot of insurance exchanges and pissed-off commuters. Still, the monotony wears thin.
Now I’m back in my unit, just past the halfway point of my shift, crawling along Speedway boulevard.
The windshield wipers drag across the glass with that rhythmic squeak that grates after the hundredth time, pushing drizzle to the edges in uneven streaks.
The rain’s tapered off, leaving the asphalt slick and gleaming under the streetlamps.
Drivers act like they’re on a NASCAR track, cutting each other off, hydroplaning in their shitty sedans, half of them with bald tires.
Every time I pass one, I half-expect to hear the crunch of another fender-bender in my rearview.
My coffee’s gone cold in the cup holder, but I drink it anyway, chasing the bitter dregs to keep myself awake as I pull into an empty parking lot.
I throw the unit into park and glance at the MDT glowing on the console, showing a stack of active calls.
I scroll through them with one finger, half paying attention.
Noise complaints. A “suspicious subject” who probably just looks homeless.
Another fender-bender on Grant. The usual for a rainy weekday swing shift.
The radio chatters constantly, dispatch juggling units across the city. I keep the volume low, the steady hum of voices and static serving as background noise while I continue to sip the last of my coffee.
And for a moment, my mind drifts to Raelynn.
Roughly around the time I started my patrol, I received a text from her saying she wanted to see me when I was free next. I still haven’t replied. Not because I don’t want to, but because the day got busy. And now that I have a moment, I’m not wasting it.
Shifting in my seat, I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb unlocking the screen, and pull up our text thread.
RAELYNN CARSON:
Hey, um. So, I’m not very good at initiating things, but I was wondering when you’ll be free next? I’d really like to see you outside of work.
I chuckle under my breath. I can picture her chewing her lip raw while typing that, probably debating whether to hit send a dozen times before actually doing it. I guarantee her friends egged her on.
I smirk, thumbs moving before I can second-guess myself.
ME:
I’m on the swing shift this week, so you won’t see me at work anyway. But I’m free on Friday.
The message sends with a soft whoosh, and I keep my eyes fixed on the screen, imagining the exact moment she reads it. The way her face will light up. The nervous little smile she won’t be able to hide. Hell, maybe she’s chewing that lip again, right now, wondering what the hell to say back.
The thought makes me grin, but it’s cut short when the radio chirps, sharp and insistent, snagging my attention and dragging me back to reality.
“All units, be advised—Priority One. Possible home invasion in progress at an apartment complex, 2400 block of North Stone Avenue.”
The words snap me out of my thoughts instantly. My phone slips from my hand and lands on the passenger seat as I grab the radio.
“2-L-17, copy. I’m a half mile out. Responding Code 3.”
I slam the handset back into its cradle, and my body moves on instinct—lights, siren, gearshift.
The red and blue lightbar ignites the wet street, throwing warped reflections across windshields and puddles as the siren’s wail tears into the night.
I drop the cruiser into gear and floor it, engine growling as I push through traffic.
“This is 2-L-17. I’m on scene,” I announce into the radio, voice clipped, steady, betraying none of the adrenaline already humming in my veins. “Standing by for backup. Beginning perimeter check.”
I cut the siren but leave the light bar going—red and blue pulses throb across the lot, washing the rain-slick pavement in color, bouncing off windshields, ricocheting off the tired stucco walls.
Stone Ridge Heights towers above me. Six stories of weathered beige, paint bleached and streaked from too many summers, and chipped black trim curling like old bark.
Rust chews through the fire escapes bolted to the face of the building, and water trails in thin lines down the metal, dripping onto the cracked sidewalk below.
Under the pulsing light, the rust looks like dried blood running in rivulets down the walls.
The handset clicks back into its cradle as I shoulder the door open.
My boots splash into shallow puddles, water spraying against my pant legs, the sharp tang of wet asphalt mixing with the heavy scent of motor oil hanging in the air.
The mist hasn’t lifted, clinging to everything, making sounds carry strangely and muffled.
Instinct takes over. My hand brushes the Glock at my hip, the weight familiar, grounding. But I don’t draw yet. Instead, I unclip my flashlight and flick it on. The beam cuts through the mist in a narrow cone as I sweep the lot, forcing myself to take in every detail, one at a time.
A TV flickers through a half-drawn curtain on the second floor, the screen strobing blue and white.
Somewhere below, muffled chatter leaks from a first-floor unit—casual, almost bored voices, like nothing’s wrong.
I’m rather surprised no one has peeked out their windows to see what’s going on.
People are inherently nosey. But then my light catches something that makes my jaw tighten: an open window on the fourth floor.
Purple curtains billow against the damp air, flapping faintly in the breeze. I shift my eyes, noting the fire escape ladder has been pulled down. Someone has recently gone up or down it.
I key the mic on my vest. “Dispatch, confirm—any additional calls from this location?”
Static hums back for a moment too long, making my pulse quicken, before the line crackles to life, a woman’s voice cutting through the quiet.
“Affirmative. Another call came shortly after the first.”
My grip tightens around the flashlight. “What was reported?”
“Caller said they heard screams and what sounded like a struggle coming from an adjacent unit.”
A cold knot twists in my gut. “Did we get a unit number?”
“Apartment 4018,” Dispatch confirms.
I tilt my head back, beam aimed higher. The window gapes black now, swallowing the light whole.
I press the mic again, voice low and firm. “Copy. How far out is my backup?”
The reply is immediate.
“2-L-21 is two minutes out. Sit tight.”
I exhale through my nose, jaw tight. Two minutes.
Two long minutes. I force myself to keep moving, sweeping the light across stairwells, darkened corners, the narrow gaps between parked cars.
Every shadow feels heavier than it should, stretched long by the pulsing red and blue, twitching at the edges of my vision like they’re waiting to move.
Then, faint at first, I hear them—sirens. Cutting through the wet night, building fast. Relief and urgency spike in equal measure.
Headlights swing into the lot, tires hissing on wet pavement. Another cruiser rolls in hard, light bar already strobing. The beams of red and blue double mine, throwing the whole building into a violent wash of color.
The car brakes to a stop just a few feet from where I stand, and the driver’s door pops open. Kline climbs out, jaw set as his eyes land on mine.
“Fill me in,” he says, voice low.
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.