Chapter 20
The sound cut through the gray fog like a blade through silk. Voices. Two voices, familiar but distant, as if filtered through water.
“I wish Stryker would just wake up.”
He was awake. He was listening. Speak again.
Who was that? It sounded like . . . Tori?
More words drifted past, syllables he couldn’t grasp, meanings that slipped away before he could hold them.
His body remained a prison, unresponsive to every command he sent down broken neural pathways.
His entire life he’d had reflexes. Control.
Lightning-fast reactions that had kept him alive in the ring, on the street, in uniform. Now, nothing.
“Stryker saved us both.”
Who had he saved? When?
The voice registered now—deep, steady.
Blade.
He remembered. Blade who came and prayed over his broken body. Blade who read that ridiculous book of dad jokes while Stryker fought to move even a finger. The kid who’d become a man, who’d become a brother.
The fog rolled back in, thick and suffocating, dragging him under. Consciousness slipped away like sand through his fingers.
Then he was listening again. How long had he been gone this time? Minutes? Hours? Days? He had no anchor to time anymore, no way to measure the spaces between awareness. He was so tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion that made even thinking feel like lifting concrete blocks.
The woman’s voice again. Tori. “Did he know I have a brother? Why wouldn’t he tell me?”
The question was a lightning strike in the dark. It didn’t just register; it detonated. The gray fog shattered like glass. The beeping monitor vanished. The antiseptic smell, the weight of the blanket, the tube in his throat, all of it dissolved.
A little boy, Tori’s mirror image, cowered under the bed. Dark hair, same delicate features. His eyes locked on Stryker, wide and unblinking, carrying more than terror. Not the hollow stare his sister wore. This gaze carried blame, as if the blood on the knife had glued shame to his skin.
The boy gripped the kitchen knife with both hands. Blood slicked the steel, smeared down his wrists. His pajama top sagged heavy, dark patches spreading from the collar all the way to the cuffs, the same cartoon print as his sister’s gown, only his drowned in red.
Stryker froze, the scene locking into place. A kid with a bloody knife, him with a drawn Glock. Wrong picture.
He shoved the pistol back into the holster and dragged both hands up, palms open, nothing to threaten.
“Easy,” he said. “You’re safe now.”
The boy pressed himself deeper into the shadows, the knife trembling in his grip. A whimper escaped his throat, high and broken.
Stryker lowered himself to his stomach so he was at eye level with the child under the bed. The hardwood floor was cold against his chest, sticky in places where blood had pooled and begun to congeal.
“Are you okay? Where are you hurt?”
The boy’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyes darted between Stryker’s face and the doorway behind him, as if calculating escape routes. The knife never wavered.
“My name’s Stryker. What’s your name?”
“Nikos.” The word was barely a whisper.
“Nikos. That’s a good name. A strong name.” Stryker kept his voice gentle. “Can you tell me what happened?”
The boy’s face crumpled. “They wouldn’t stop screaming.”
A shadow fell across the room. Heavy footsteps thudded in the hallway.
“King!”
Stryker tipped his head toward the doorway. Commander Barclay filled it, shoulders squared, eyes cutting across the room. They tracked the sprawled bodies, the overturned chair, Stryker on his belly. No recoil. No startle. Just a quick read, like he’d walked into exactly what he expected.
Stryker got to his feet, instinctively creating a barrier between Barclay and the hidden child.
A thin cut ran down the left side of Barclay’s face from ear to jaw.
He’d seen similar scratches on the commander’s hands and neck before.
Occupational hazards from the German shepherds he raised at home for police training. But this one seemed deeper. Fresher.
“Sir, we have another survivor. A male child. He’s under the bed.”
Barclay stepped inside, and his gaze flicked past Stryker, locking on the shadow beneath the bed. His jaw shifted, tightened. The faintest flicker crossed his face. Like he’d just settled on a verdict.
“Good work, King.” His voice boomed loud enough to announce himself to whoever lingered in the hall. “Looks like you found our perpetrator.”
Stryker’s gut bucked hard, his breath catching before he could haul it steady. “Sir?”
Barclay moved closer, his presence filling the room. “The boy attacked his parents, then went after his sister. She hid in the closet. He crawled under the bed with the murder weapon when he heard your sirens.”
The narrative was insane. Impossible.
He opened his mouth to object, but Barclay’s attention had already shifted to Damien, who stood frozen in the doorway.
“Sullivan. Get that kid out of there. Bag the weapon.”
He expected Damien to object, but he didn’t move. His skin blanched gray, eyes fixed on some middle distance. Not a word. Not a shake of the head. Nothing.
If his partner wasn’t standing up for the kid, then Stryker would. “Sir, that’s a four-year-old child. A victim. He’s terrified.”
Barclay stepped in hard, chest nearly brushing Stryker’s.
“You are a patrolman who responded to a call.” The commander’s breath was hot in Stryker’s face, carrying the stench of coffee and cigarettes.
“You will hand your preliminary notes to Officer Sullivan. You will not speak to anyone else about what you think you saw in this room. Do I make myself clear?”
“Sir, I—”
“This family’s tangled up in things way above your pay grade, King. The boy—he’s dangerous. Unstable. Best outcome for this child is if he disappears into the system where he can get the help he needs.”
Stryker locked his fists at his thighs, blood surging fast, body begging for action. One strike, one shove, and he could clear the rot out of this room. But Barclay’s words jammed him where he stood.
“You’ve got a future, King. Don’t burn it. This is bigger than one family circling the drain.”
Barclay drove his hand down on Stryker’s shoulder, not friendly. Ownership. Control. Fingers drilled into muscle, hard enough that he’d carry the mark into tomorrow.
“This is mine now,” Barclay said. “You’re done here.”
Behind them, Damien had dropped to his knees beside the bed. “Come on out, son. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Stryker heard the boy’s terrified whimper, the sound of feet scuffling against hardwood as Damien dragged him from his hiding place. The knife struck the hardwood, bounced once, then spun flat with a metallic ping that hung in the air.
“Mommy!” The boy’s scream cracked the air, sharp as glass. “I want Mommy! Mommy!”
Stryker turned, muscles coiled, but Barclay shoved him down the hall. “Walk away, King. Now. That’s an order.”
He heard the threat in Barclay’s tone. The kind of threat that promised more than a write-up or lost stripes.
Damien locked his arms around the kid, absorbing the wild fists hammering his chest. The boy clawed and twisted, shouting, “Victoria! Where’s Victoria?”
Damien caught one tiny wrist, folded it into his palm, holding him steady. “She’s safe. She’s going somewhere safe.”
This wasn’t right. None of this was right. Barclay’s fingers dug into his shoulder blade, the grip promising consequences that stretched far beyond this blood-soaked house.
Right and wrong had died the moment they’d crossed this threshold.
Barclay finally released his grip, stepping back with a satisfied nod. “You did good work tonight, King. The department won’t forget it.”
The bedroom door swung shut with a solid click. Whatever truth was in there stayed locked with the dead.
Stryker stood frozen in the hallway. His fingers curled hard enough that the nails cut his own palms, the only thing keeping the shake out of his hands. His vision blurred, and he caught the tear with his thumb before it could fall. Stryker King did not show weakness. Not to them, not to anyone.
His boots were heavy on the hardwood as he walked toward the front door. The other officers barely glanced up. Just another night. Just another case.
He pushed through the door into the humid Florida night.
The red and blue lights of the patrol cars washed over him, painting the world in colors of emergency and order.
The cops, the paramedics, the neighbors standing in the street and peering from their windows.
He didn’t see justice. He saw a machine.
A machine that the department’s chain of command controlled.
Two bodies lay cooling in that bedroom. Parents who would never see their children grow up. A little girl sat in an ambulance outside, probably still rocking, still silent, with nothing but a caseworker between her and a lifetime of foster homes.
She would spend decades trying to outrun this night. The nightmares would follow her through every placement, every new bed, every attempt at normal. And her brother. What would they do to that terrified little boy? Lock him away in some institution where the truth would die with him?
He looked at his own hands now covered in blood. The same hands that had just tried to save a man’s life and comfort a child. Hands that could KO a man with a single hit but had no power in this situation.
Not if he could help it.
He couldn’t stop what had already happened. But he could watch. He could wait. And when those children got chewed up and spit out of whatever system they were being sent to, he would be there.