The Boy [mxb]

21

"So, obviously, we're gonna make it," Ken assures me conversationally as we drive out to the scene. "We're gonna get home, wash the blood off, and bro out after a hard workout."

"Sounds perfect," I smile sidelong at him across the console. "And of course we'll survive; we always do."

"Mm, yeah, I'm gonna crush you in weights."

"Good luck. I've been lifting Ciel."

We arrive at the AOR in a whirl of blazing lights and wailing sirens.

"This is Romano," I radio in. "I want CSIs to keep their distance. I got lead. You got that, Tony?"

"Copy."

We're out of the car almost before the engine stops, adrenaline mounting as we get our shields and rifles out. There are black, unmarked cars pulled up alongside us, detectives seated inside.

The SWAT team moves like a swarm of ants in crouched positions, communicating with nothing but nods and hand gestures and grunts of let's go.

"Here goes nothing. I love you, man." Ken bumps my shoulder lightly, face grim before it disappears behind his balaclava.

"I love you too, bro. Bad boys, and all that shit."

"Yup."

Ken and I trot up to to the porch, keeping our heads on swivels as we prepare for tactical entry.

"If this door don't open, I'm making it open," I mutter. I bring my radio to my mouth. "Positions. Prepare to breach the house."

A SWAT officer stationed at the side of the house lifts a fist. I mimic the gesture and step forward with the ram.

"Police!"

We burst in with rifles cocked and shields covering us. The house is dark and silent. We spread out in all directions, in pairs, one clutching the strap on the back of the other's vest. Calls of clear systematically eliminate the main floor as the source of action.

"NYPD, anybody in here?" Ken and I climb the stairs on the balls of our feet, light footsteps virtually silent as we fly up the steps.

"Help!" A muffled voice cries out.

"Hit it," I order, and Ken kicks the first door in.

"Clear," he calls. "No one in here."

We go from door to door, and the muted screaming continues. I keep my eyes peeled for a man with a gun, probably poised to spring on us from any direction at any time.

"I smell gasoline," O'Donnell mutters from up ahead.

Fuck.

A shower of splinters rain down as I breach the last door. The kids are tied up to chairs, mostly gagged, while our guy douses the ground with gasoline in a circle around them. He doesn't even look up as we enter.

I notice the lighter in his hands and take a deep breath to stave off the panic.

"Drop the lighter," I bark in warning.

He's sweating, got that crazed gleam in his eye I know all too well.

I radio for backup to the top floor, and a fire extinguisher.

"You have no right to be in my home," he snarls at us over his shoulder.

"I got a warrant says I do," I rebut, my rifle trained on him. "Put the lighter down, Bart."