Mike pulled out his key, careful not to make a sound, and slid it into the lock. At that moment, he still had no idea that in less than a minute his life would turn into another battlefield.
He moved through the familiar building as if he were walking through a place from another life. Every turn of the stairwell, every old bench by the entrance, brought back memories. But that morning, the place felt wrong.
Spring sunlight lit the chipped paint on the empty swings and the neglected sandbox below. The air carried the same kind of tension Mike had learned to recognize before incoming fire. He stopped beneath the old linden tree outside for a second to shift the strap of his heavy pack and catch his breath.
His eyes went straight to the windows of their apartment. The curtains were pulled tight. That alone was unusual for Mary, who loved sunlight and fresh air. Then he noticed something else: her flowerpots were gone from the sill.
Near the entrance sat a large black SUV with dark tinted windows and spotless rims. It looked out of place in the courtyard, like a predator waiting in a quiet neighborhood. Mike frowned, feeling something cold and focused wake up inside him.
Fresh cigarette butts littered the ground near the door—expensive ones, not the kind his retired neighbors usually smoked. The building door was cracked open, though the residents normally kept it shut for safety. A hard sense of trouble settled in his chest.
Mike stepped into the dim, cool stairwell, placing his boots carefully so his gear wouldn’t rattle. The smell of damp plaster mixed with the sharp scent of cheap men’s cologne. On the first floor he noticed the apartment door of his neighbor, old Mr. Daniels, standing slightly open. The man always knew what was going on in the building.
The old man peered through the gap, saw the figure in camouflage, and went pale. He tried to close the door, but Mike caught it with the toe of his boot. “Mr. Daniels, it’s me—Mike Collins. What’s going on?” he asked in a low voice.
The man trembled and pressed a finger to his lips, then pointed upward toward the third floor. “Son, you need to get out of here before they see you,” he whispered hoarsely. “There are dangerous men up there.” Then he disappeared back into the dark of his apartment, leaving Mike alone in the stairwell.
A chill ran down Mike’s back, and his palms turned damp with adrenaline. He started up the stairs slowly, keeping close to the wall and listening for every sound. Under his weight, the steps creaked, and in the silence the noise seemed far too loud.
On the second floor he stopped short. On the landing lay the shattered remains of a glass vase Mary had once proudly bought for their hallway. The shards glittered in the light from the dirty window like little knives. Mike felt his breathing turn heavy and uneven.
His mind raced through every bad possibility. He remembered the threats volunteers sometimes got from local criminals and opportunists. His hand moved on instinct toward the empty place where a sidearm would normally be, only to remember he was unarmed here.
He forced himself to settle down and think clearly, just as he’d been trained to do. He exhaled slowly and focused on the sounds above, from apartment twelve. There was movement inside—heavy footsteps, furniture scraping, more than one man.
When he reached the third-floor landing, the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke hit him from inside his own home. His heart dropped when he saw deep scratches around the door handle, as if someone had tried to force the lock. Then came a sound that cut through him completely: a soft, stifled sob. Annie.
That sound hit him harder than any shell burst ever had…
