Chapter 12
The gray fog pressed against Stryker like cotton batting, muffling everything. Everything except that steady beep . . . beep . . . beep that marked time in this nowhere place.
Stryker drifted. Consciousness without anchor. Without form. Just awareness. Floating in an endless void. Trapped in a place where memory had no shape and time held no meaning.
Something changed.
A dull pressure settled on his arm. Real. Immediate. The first concrete sensation he’d felt in . . . how long? Days? Weeks?
The pressure increased, fingers wrapping around his bicep.
Then the needle.
Cool metal pierced his skin, sliding deep into muscle. He tried to flinch. Tried to pull away. His body remained a prison. Unresponsive. Dead weight anchored to a bed he couldn’t see.
The helplessness crashed over him like a tide. Complete. Absolute. A mind trapped in flesh that no longer obeyed.
Pressure in his veins. The needle pinched as it moved. Pressure again.
“Last one.” A voice close to his ear.
The needle withdrew with a wet pop.
“Oops,” the voice said. “Sorry about that.”
What had gone wrong?
But then . . . a smell.
Sharp. Metallic.
Blood.
The scent hit his consciousness, cutting through the fog.
Not just any blood. His blood.
The copper tang that had filled his nostrils during countless fights, countless crime scenes, countless moments when violence had painted the world red.
The smell was a key turning in a lock.
The gray void shattered.
The beeping monitor faded to silence.
Twenty-six years collapsed in an instant.
The smell of blood hovered in the air. Fresh. Warm. Still spreading across hardwood floors in dark, arterial pools.
Stryker’s radio crackled against his shoulder. “Unit 47, what’s your status?”
Damien keyed his mic. “We need paramedics. Now.” The code for homicide rolled off his tongue. Numbers that meant another family destroyed, another crime scene to process. “And bring child services.”
The last part hit harder than it should have.
Stryker crouched at the closet entrance, studying the little girl.
Her purple princess nightgown was pulled over her knees, and she rocked.
Back and forth. Back and forth. The fabric showed cartoon crowns and sparkly wands, innocent images that belonged in bedtime stories, not crime scenes.
Her forehead pressed against her knees, long dark hair falling like a curtain around her face. She hadn’t acknowledged his presence. Hadn’t even flinched when he spoke.
What did you say to a little girl who may have just witnessed her parents’ murder?
He’d arrested child abusers, responded to domestic violence calls where kids cowered in corners. But this felt different. This child had retreated so far inside herself that the outside world might not exist.
“Hey, sweetie,” he said. “Can you tell me your name?”
Nothing. The rocking continued.
Behind him, the man’s breathing grew more labored. Wet. Rattling. Time was running out for everyone in this house.
Stryker reached toward the little girl, fingers extended. Maybe physical contact would break through whatever wall she’d built around herself.
The moment his hand touched her shoulder, she erupted.
A scream tore from her throat. High-pitched. Primal. Pure terror given voice. She thrashed against the closet wall, small fists beating at the air, eyes wide but unseeing.
“Hey, hey.” He pulled his hand back, palms raised. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
The screaming stopped as suddenly as it started. She collapsed back into her rocking position, forehead to knees, as if the outburst had never happened.
His radio crackled. Paramedics were still five minutes out, but it was already too late for the man and woman behind him. And this little girl was trapped in a nightmare that wouldn’t end.
He lowered himself to the closet floor, settling beside her with his back against the wall. Close enough to help if needed. Far enough away that she wouldn’t feel cornered.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to touch her again. Just sat in the darkness, matching her rhythm. When she rocked forward, he leaned slightly forward. When she rocked back, he followed.
Sometimes presence was enough. Sometimes sitting with someone in their worst moment was the only thing you could offer.
The little girl’s breathing gradually slowed. The mechanical rocking softened into something more natural. Still there, but less frantic.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer.
Damien appeared in the closet doorway, his face grim. He nodded toward the bedroom. “Hey man, we need to do something.”
He didn’t have to say anything else. In minutes, this house would explode with activity.
Paramedics, crime scene techs, detectives, the coroner.
Radios crackling, cameras flashing, men and women shouting across a house that should have been filled with Saturday morning cartoons and pancake breakfasts.
The little girl didn’t need to see any of that.
Stryker shifted, angling himself to face her more directly. He kept his voice soft, steady. “Sweetie, your daddy and mommy are hurt, and they need some help.”
Her head lifted a fraction. Just enough that he caught a glimpse of dark eyes beneath the curtain of hair.
Progress.
“Some very nice people are coming to help them,” he continued. “But they need lots of room to work. They have big bags with special tools, and they need to move around without bumping into anyone.”
She turned her face toward him. Not fully, but enough that he could see her profile.
“These helpers are really good at fixing people who are hurt,” he said. “But while they work, we need to go somewhere quiet where we won’t get in their way. Does that sound okay?”
Her eyes met his for the first time. Wide. Dark. Still glazed with shock but present. Aware.
She nodded.
The simple gesture sent relief flooding through his chest. She was still in there. Still reachable.
Stryker swiveled until he could squat in front of her, bringing himself down to her eye level. “Would it be okay if I picked you up and carried you out? I promise I’ll be very careful.”
For a moment, she just stared at him. Weighing. Deciding.
Then she lifted her arms.
The trust in that gesture nearly undid him. This little girl, who had just lived through only God knew what, was willing to let a stranger carry her to safety.
He scooped her up, and she was impossibly light. His duty belt weighed more than she did. All sharp elbows and bird-thin shoulders, like she might disappear if he held her too tightly.
“I need you to keep your eyes closed, okay?” He placed his hand on the back of her head, guiding her face into his shoulder. “Just like you’re playing hide-and-seek. Keep them closed tight until I tell you it’s safe to open them.”
She buried her face against his uniform shirt, fingers gripping the fabric.
Stryker positioned his other hand over her eyes, creating a double barrier. No matter what, she wouldn’t see the blood. Wouldn’t see her father’s still form on the bedroom floor. Wouldn’t carry those images with her for the rest of her life.
He stood, cradling her against his sternum, and moved toward the closet entrance.
Just before they crossed the threshold, she whispered against his shoulder. So quiet he almost missed it.
“What about Nikos?”
The question stopped him cold. Nikos. A name. A person.
The empty crib.
The paramedics came through the front door ready to save lives. Damien pushed past him, moving to intercept them.
“Hold up,” Damien said. “This is an active crime scene. We need to preserve evidence before you start tracking through here.”
Stryker adjusted his grip on the little girl. The paramedics had protocols for this. They’d know how to handle a traumatized child without making things worse.
“Sweetie,” he said, “there’s a nice lady here who’s going to take you to the ambulance. She needs to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere.”
The girl’s head lifted from his shoulder. Her dark eyes found the female EMT standing in the doorway. A woman with graying hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and the kind of calmness that came from years of emergency calls.
“Hi there, sweetheart.” The EMT stepped forward, hands visible. “My name’s Carol. I’m going to take really good care of you, okay?”
The girl looked between Stryker and Carol, processing. Then she nodded.
The transfer happened with surprising ease. Carol lifted the girl from Stryker’s arms like she’d done this ten thousand times with her own children, cradling her with practiced efficiency.
“We’ll be right outside,” Carol said, already moving toward the door. “Take your time in here.”
The girl didn’t protest. Didn’t scream. Just let herself be carried away from the nightmare behind her.
Stryker watched them disappear through the front door, then hurried to where Damien stood blocking the other first responders.
“There might be someone else here,” he said. “The girl asked about Nikos.”
Damien’s eyes flicked around the living room like he expected to see someone standing there among the furniture. “We searched everywhere, man. Top to bottom.”
“Not under the beds.”
The words hung for a beat. Then Damien turned without another word, heading toward the children’s rooms.
Stryker moved in the opposite direction, back toward the master bedroom. He unsnapped his holster but left the weapon seated.
The bedroom felt smaller now, the metallic smell of blood thicker. Stryker stepped carefully around the dark pools spreading across the hardwood, positioning himself on the far side of the bed, the only patch of floor not yet pooling blood.
He crouched down, fingers gripping the dust ruffle.
It was then he heard it. A small, hitched breath. A tiny, almost inaudible whimper from the darkness beneath the bed.
He lifted the fabric.
The smell of urine hit him first. Then his eyes adjusted to the shadows. Two dark eyes stared back at him, wide with a terror that went beyond tears.
A boy. The same dark hair, the same eyes as the girl.
Dark hair was matted to his forehead. Blood streaked his cheek like war paint. More blood, dark and drying, coated his small hand and the handle of the kitchen knife clutched in his fist.