Chapter Text
2:15 p.m., Saturday, February 1, 2014
The Edgemere carnival’s midway thrummed with chaotic energy—carousel pipes wheezing, kids’ shrieks piercing the air, the sizzle of funnel cake grease and grilled sausages clashing with cotton candy’s cloying sweetness, the ground sticky with spilled soda under their boots.
Vi’s teasing had left Caitlyn red-faced, her “hard-as-fuck tent” comment still ringing, when Vi’s gaze snapped to a small child with long dark brown hair and brown eyes—about three years old—standing alone in the crowd, tears streaming down her cheeks, her tiny hands clutching a stuffed bunny as she wailed for her parents. Vi’s brows furrowed, voice low. “This kid seems lost her parents. We gotta check it out.”
Caitlyn nodded, concern flooding her face. “Yeah, let’s go, Boot.”
They approached, neck gaiters up, masking their faces. The child’s cries grew louder, her eyes wide with fear at the two masked deputies looming. Caitlyn knelt, gently lowering her gaiter to reveal a friendly smile, her ocean-blue eyes soft and kind. “Hey, kid, I’m Corporal Kiramman, this is Deputy Bretschneider from the county sheriff’s office. Where are your parents? Lost?” Her voice was warm, soothing.
The child blinked, tilting her head, then wailed harder, words unintelligible. Caitlyn scratched her head, glancing at Vi. “Foreigner? Doesn’t understand English, Boot.”
Vi squatted, pulling her gaiter down, her broken Spanish tumbling out. “¿Dónde están tus padres, pequeña?” The child’s brows knitted in confusion, cries escalating.
Caitlyn teased, smirking. “Boot, could it be your Spanish is so broken she can’t even understand?”
Vi side-eyed her, standing. “Oh, come on, I’m not that bad in Spanish.” She scanned the crowd—no frantic parents. Sighing, she pressed her PTT. “Unit 37 to Central, lost child, approximately three years old, midway. Bringing to van for dispatch to locate parents, over.” Central acknowledged.
Vi scooped the child with the tenderness of a mother cradling her own, the girjl nestling into her chest, clinging to her stuffed bunny, sobs softening into hiccups. Caitlyn led the way to the TRU Sprinter van parked outside, her steps careful, heart swelling at Vi’s care. They then passed a can-throwing booth, the clatter of metal ringing. Caitlyn’s eyes lit on the prize—a plush rocket, bright and starry. She turned to Vi, voice bright.“Boot, let’s get her the rocket. Kids love astronauts—might cheer her up while we wait in the van.”
Vi shot a skeptical look, shifting the child. “Really? A rocket? I feel the Grand prize suits her more” she said as she pointed at that giant bunny plushie sitting on top of a shelf.
Caitlyn glanced at that giant bunny plushie then side-eyed her. “Violet, are you kidding me? That giant bunny looks bigger than this kiddo, how can she cling to it?” Her grin reappeared “Besides every kid dreams of space. It’ll make her happy.” She fished dollars from her pocket, handing them to the stall worker for balls.
Vi shrugged, “Fine, you got a point,” but the child, fiddling with Vi’s PTT on her duty vest, unclipped it, letting it drop. Vi noticed, reclipping it gently. “Huh? It’s not a toy, kiddo—don’t play with this. Here, hold my pen instead.” She offered a pen from her vest, the child grasping it with tiny fingers, her bunny tucked under her arm.
In the game booth, Caitlyn grabbed a ball, tossing it—clank, miss. Another—clank, miss. She sighed, ready to quit. Vi patted her shoulder. “Come on, Corporal, let me handle this.” She handed Caitlyn the child, who clung to her bunny. Vi took the ball, her jiu-jitsu precision guiding a perfect toss—CRASH—cans toppling. The worker rang the bell and handed over the rocket toy.
Caitlyn swung the child’s tiny arms, cheering as she smiled, “Yay, she won!” The girl’s gaze fixed on the balls, muttering, “Palla… palla… voglio.” Caitlyn’s eyes widened, realizing. “Boot, she’s Italian—that’s why she doesn’t understand English or Spanish!” She spoke gently in Italian, “Non possiamo dartelo, non è nostro, ma puoi avere questo—un razzo! (You can’t have it, it’s not ours. But you can have this—a rocket!)” Vi handed the rocket, the child’s face blooming with a shy smile, clutching it with her bunny while Caitlyn grinned.
As they walked past game stalls, Caitlyn asked in Italian, “Come ti chiami?” The child replied, “Victorie DaVid.” Caitlyn signaled Vi to jot it in her notepad. Suddenly, the child snatched Caitlyn’s beret, clutching it tight. Caitlyn pleaded, “Posso riavere?” but the girl shook her head as she clutched her beret tightly to her chest. Caitlyn sighed, placing the beret on the child’s head, the silver trident pin glinting as they headed to the van.
The carnival’s entrance buzzed with a lively hum—families streaming in, the clatter of ticket booths, and the faint sizzle of food stalls carried on the cold midday air. The ground crunched with frost and scattered confetti, the crowd’s warmth a soft contrast to the chill. Cait and Vi approached the checkpoint with a lost child named Victorie DaVid carried by Cait. Her tiny arms wrapped around Caitlyn’s neck, clutching a plush rocket toy, her bunny, and Caitlyn’s beret on her messy hair. Caitlyn’s eyes radiated maternal care, while Vi’s eyes glowed with warmth.
At the entrance, Steb, Loris, and Maddie took a break to eat lunch from working in the security searches, their TRU uniforms crisp, body cams rolling. Loris, towering and broad, spotted Caitlyn with Victorie and strode over, his smile friendly. “Hello, kiddo, I’m Deputy Carter—what’s your name?” He gently took her tiny hand in his massive one, his voice warm, his smile warm as Clawhauser from Zootopia.
Victorie’s eyes widened, frightened by his giant presence, and she clung tighter to Caitlyn, burying her face in her vest, the rocket toy squished between them. Caitlyn patted her head, whispering in Italian, “Victorie, sono qui, non devi avere paura.” She shooed Loris with a soft grin, “Your size is scaring her, big guy.” Her motherly instinct shone, cradling the child like her own. And Vi in the back ,grinning as she tease Loris’s giant presence. “Come on ,we know you are gentle as Clawhauser but jeez you’re scaring her ,Loris.”
Loris pouted, stepping back. “Why?”
Suddenly, Victorie peeked out, giggling and pointing at Loris as Cait put her in the front passenger seat to sit. “Faccia buffa! Hahaha!” Loris shot Cait a confused look “What does that mean?”
Caitlyn laughed, her ocean-blue eyes sparkling. “Means your face is funny to her—she’s Italian.” Loris, grinning, pulled exaggerated faces—crossed eyes, puffed cheeks—making Victorie dissolve into giggles, her bunny and rocket bouncing.
Steb approached Vi, nodding at the child. “This is the kid from the radio call?” Their earpieces had caught Vi’s report to Central about the lost girl.
Vi nodded, joining Caitlyn. “Yeah, Victorie DaVid. No parent reports yet.” She knelt by the child, her voice soft, playing with the rocket toy.
Victorie, emboldened, slipped from Caitlyn’s arms, toddling out of the TRU Sprinter van’s open door, her tiny boots pattering. Caitlyn and Vi trailed like concerned parents, their duty vests creaking. A stray tabby cat darted through the parking lot, and Victorie pointed, squealing, “Gattino! (kitty!)”
Caitlyn grinned, replying in Italian, “Sì, quello è un gattino. (Yes, that’s a kitty)” She gently pulled Victorie back, her voice tender. “Ma non giocheremo con lui, lasciamo stare il gattino. (But we’re not going to play with him, so let’s leave this kitty alone) ” Victorie pouted but clutched her rocket, staying close.
A while later as the child slept peacefully in the front passenger seat, her tiny mouth working a pacifier, clutching her stuffed bunny and plush rocket toy, Caitlyn’s blue beret perched adorably on her head. Caitlyn leaned close as they stood just outside the open van doors. Whispering, her voice a soft caress. “Vi, look at her little mouth moving under that pacifier—so adorable. Makes me wanna have a kid after we’re married. Wonder what our firstborn’s eyes would be—blue like mine, grey like yours, or mixed like a diamond?” Her smile was dreamy, heart swelling.
Vi’s eyes widened, blinking rapidly. “Wait—that's why we keep fucking without protection? You deadass wanna put a baby in me???!” Her voice mixed shock and playful heat. Caitlyn gasped, clapping a hand over Vi’s mouth, cheeks flaming. “Jesus Christ, Violet!” she hissed, glancing at the sleeping child, her ocean-blue eyes darting nervously. “Kid’s here! Don’t say that word! She doesn’t need to know this stuff that early!”
Vi ,brows furrowed in confusion “it doesn’t matter, Cait, she doesn’t understand English anyway-“ but only received another glare from her.
Suddenly Commander Wang’s voice crackled through their earpieces, sharp. “All units, Italian couple at reception looking for their child, proximity three years old, female, brown eyed and dark brown haired over.”
Caitlyn pressed her PTT, voice steady. “Unit 37, confirm last name, over.”
Wang’s reply was curt. “DaVid.”
Caitlyn’s heart leaped. She gently scooped her up, the child stirring but not waking, her head nestling on Caitlyn’s shoulder, pacifier bobbing. Vi gathered the bear and rocket, her touch tender, and radioed, “Unit 37, en route to reception with Victorie DaVid, over.” They strode to the carnival’s reception area, Caitlyn cradling Victorie like her own, Vi trailing with toys.
At 2:50 p.m.
Victorie’s mother, a woman in her late 20s with tear-streaked cheeks and a trembling lip, stood near a table, clutching a photo of her daughter, her husband beside her, rocking a nine-month-old baby. The moment Caitlyn crossed the threshold, the mother’s eyes locked on Victorie, a choked sob escaping as she stumbled forward, hands reaching. “Victorie! Dio mio, la mia bambina!” she cried, voice breaking with raw relief, tears spilling anew. Caitlyn’s heart clenched, her arms aching to hold the child longer, but she knelt, gently easing Victorie into her stroller, the girl stirring but not waking, pacifier steady. The mother collapsed to her knees, fingers brushing Victorie’s cheek, whispering in Italian, “Tesoro, sei al sicuro, mamma è qui.” Her sobs mingled with breathless thanks, her hands trembling as she removed Cait’s beret from her daughter’s head then returned to the deputies.
The father, eyes red-rimmed, shifted the baby to one arm, stepping forward to grip Caitlyn’s hand, then Vi’s, his voice thick with gratitude in accented English. “Grazie, grazie mille—you save our hearts.” He pressed a hand to his chest, the baby cooing softly, oblivious. Vi’s grey eyes glistened, her empathy a quiet flood as she handed over the rocket and bunny tucking them beside Victorie, her fingers lingering on the child’s tiny hand.
Caitlyn, eavesdropping, caught the mother’s gentle scolding in Italian: “Victorie, non uscire mai da sola, troppe persone qui.” (Don’t wander off alone, too many people). Her ocean-blue eyes stung, the words echoing her own protective instincts. Before they left, the mother nudged Victorie, who stirred, rubbing sleepy eyes. She guided her daughter’s tiny hand to wave, her voice piping in a drowsy, adorable lilt, “Arrivederci!” The mother smiled through tears, waving Victorie’s arm. Caitlyn’s heart melted, tears pricking as she waved back, voice soft, “Arrivederci, piccola.” Vi grinned, her hand brushing Caitlyn’s, their bond a warm anchor amidst the reunion’s joy.
At 4:30 p.m,
After Cait and Vi returned the lost child to their parents, they returned to stand guard near a game stall.
Vi watched Caitlyn chug a second water bottle, smirking. “What, Corporal, you’re a fish needing this much water daily?”
Caitlyn capped the bottle, leaning close, her breath scalding Vi’s ear, voice a husky whisper. “Trying to drown out the urge to touch myself, Boot. It’s aching—can’t stop thinking about you. I need to use the bathroom, now. Guard the door.” Her ocean-blue eyes flashed, her clitoris pulsing painfully.
Vi’s grin widened, her grey eyes gleaming. They strolled to a mobile bathroom, the plastic door creaking as Caitlyn slipped inside, Vi standing guard.
Four minutes later, Vi teased, knocking lightly. “Corporal, have you fallen in the toilet? Need firefighters to fish you out?” Her voice dripped with playfulness. Inside, Caitlyn sat on the toilet, pants down, facepalmed as her throbbing clitoris fully erect, flushed purple, dripping. She’d tried to pee, but the hardness blocked it. Spitting into her palm, she stroked slowly, each touch a lightning bolt, her fingers circling the hypersensitive head, moans spilling in heavy, ragged pants, the mirror fogging with her breath.
Vi heard the faint panting, her grin shifting to hunger. Noticing the door wasn’t fully locked, she glanced around—no eyes—pocketed her body cam, and slipped inside, locking the door with a click. Caitlyn’s eyes snapped open, her hand frozen mid-stroke, length glistening. Vi bit her lip, voice a sultry purr. “So, my Italian stallion, this is what you’re doing without me sucking this gorgeous, hard clitoris?” She knelt, her tongue lashing the purple head, then enveloping it, lips a tight suction cup, head bobbing with erotic sounds.
Caitlyn’s head slammed the wall, plastic shuddering, her hand muffling screams. “Can’t pee when I’m hard as fuck—thank God you’re here. God, it feels so good-” Her hips bucked, guiding Vi’s head.
Vi pulled off her pants, panting, lips glistening, saliva stringing. “Let me ride you, Cait—fill me up, please.” She stood, pants dropping to her ankles, straddling Caitlyn on the toilet seat, the porcelain creaking. She licked her fingers, slurping, teasing her dripping entrance, guiding Caitlyn’s thick, pulsing length in, the schlick of entry deafening. Vi’s moan was a guttural “please fuck me harder!” She rode up and down, walls clenching like a vice, the seat groaning under their rhythm.
Caitlyn’s thrusts surged upward, hips slamming, the bathroom rattling. “Request approved—God, so tight, been craving this,” she growled, cupping Vi’s face for a sloppy French kiss, tongues battling, saliva dripping as Caitlyn noticed Vi shuddered as her own peak teetered. Caitlyn playfully pulled out, grabbing her hardened length, slick with their juices, rubbing Vi’s swollen clitoris and dripping entrance without entering, teasing with slow, torturous circles. Vi’s eyes rolled back, begging, “Please, put it back—stop teasing, I’m so close—fuck me hard!”
Caitlyn leaned in, lips crashing into Vi’s for a sloppy French kiss, tongues battling, saliva dripping. “How can I say no to that face?” she purred, sliding her pulsing length back in, the schlick deafening as she thrust fiercely, hips pistoning, the toilet rattling. Vi purred, “Yes, so fucking good,” her waist shaking, walls clamping tighter, her moans stifled to whimpers to avoid the crowd outside.
Vi’s climax hit like a tidal wave, her waist convulsing, love juices splashing, gasping, “Worth making you fuck me twice.” Caitlyn’s waist started to shake uncontrollably. She growled, a primal sound, a climax that she had been wanting to release, all came out as its throbbing intensified till this transparent fluid dripped onto the toilet. She then kissed her cheeks, then lips, voice soft but teasing. “Just ask, Vi. When have I said no?” She hugged Vi’s waist tightly, their sweat-slick bodies pressed, panting in the sweltering bathroom, the carnival’s din a distant hum.
At 5:56 p.m.
Cait and Vi continue to stand guard near a game stall, Caitlyn’s eyes, sharp despite fatigue. As she scanned for threats, her gaze suddenly drifted to a parent cradling a baby, the infant’s tiny hand clutching a finger, and her heart swelled, imagining their own firstborn daughter held in a hospital room. “Vi, what name for our firstborn? I’m thinking Lavender,” she said softly, her voice drifting to the lavender vase on their kitchen counter, its scent filling their apartment.
Vi raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “Still on that kiddo from earlier?” She shot Caitlyn a playful look.
“Vi, she was adorable as hell,” Caitlyn replied, eyes serious. “Holding her with one arm, her tiny weight—pure joy. Makes me want that. To bring my daughter to see a carnival like this. I bet she will be so excited to see all these toys and amusement rides.” Cait said as she grinned.
Vi’s smile faded, concern deepening. “She’s cute, but after maternity leave, who’s going to care for her? We’re at the Sheriff’s Office half the day, plus Grady. I know marriage isn’t required to have a child, but think it through. I’d hate our kid feeling distant ‘cause we’re always working. It’d break my heart, knowing that I failed as a mom.” Her voice cracked, empathy raw.
Caitlyn sighed heavily, childhood memories flooding back—always spending her summers at Grandma’s in Maine, her father Tobias’s busy surgeon life, and her mother Cassandra’s overtime at the police station mirroring her own current life. “You’re right, Vi. No time for that responsibility—yet.”
Vi cut in, grinning despite the weight. “At least for now. But someday, our firstborn daughter Lavender might sneak into our lives when the time’s right, Cait.”
Caitlyn’s eyes sparkled. “Vi, how’re you so sure it’s a girl?”
“My sixth sense,” Vi said, glancing at Sprinter vans gathering in the parking lot, signaling shift change. “Night shift’s here! Thanks god, we can finally ditch this 15kg+ gear. Wearing this heavy duty vest plus a soft shell vest inside is ridiculously painful.” She tugged off her beret, shaking out her gelled hair.
Caitlyn removed hers, the silver pin catching the light. Night shift Deputies Romanski and Lang approached, signaling the end of their day shift. “My legs are burning from standing 11 hours straight and only got one hour lunchtime to sit,” Vi groaned, walking with Caitlyn to their van.
Caitlyn grinned. “You’ll get used to it, Boot.” They loaded gear, the carnival’s lights fading behind
At 6:15 p.m.
The armory door clanged shut behind them, the metallic echo swallowed by the corridor’s hum. Caitlyn and Vi, still in sweat-damp TRU’s combat uniform, had just surrendered every pound of riot gear—shields, launchers, helmets, AR-15s racked with a final clack. Miss Fortune’s clipboard bore their signatures like a quiet benediction.
In the locker room, the air smelled of gun oil and sweat. Caitlyn peeled off her vests, the Velcro ripping like a sigh. She lifted her blue beret one last time and set it beneath her everyday deputy cap like a crown she could never truly remove. Duty wasn’t a hat; it was a heartbeat. She shut the locker with a soft clunk, and turned. Only to find Vi lingered at her own locker, thumb tracing the laminated photo taped inside: Caitlyn at the Inner Harbor, hair a wind-tossed blue storm, Vi kissing her mid-laugh. The memory of their first date hit like warm whiskey, harbor wind turning Caitlyn into a furious Medusa with tangled hair, claw clip bought in panic, both of them laughing so hard they nearly fell off the pier.
“Oh God, Vi,” Caitlyn groaned, cheeks flaming. “Throw that. I look like I lost a fight with a leaf-blower.”
Vi’s smile was soft, reverent. “It’s the happiest photo I own. Even your claw-clip couldn’t save you from the wind, and you were still the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.”
Caitlyn’s laugh cracked, memories flooding as Vi’s shy hand on her waist, the salt spray, the moment she realized this was forever. Vi stepped closer and rest her head on her shoulder, voice barely above the hum of the vents. “So can we go ride that Ferris wheel now?”
“Vi, you really are obsessed over that Ferris wheel. Fine ,but we have to return quickly before Grady turns into a hellhound in hunger. But anyway it has been a long time since we ride bike together, wanna go for a ride?” Cait said as she grinned.
Vi’s grin could’ve lit the room. “Hellyeah, race you to the bike.”
They walked out side by side, berets left behind, the weight of the crown shared between two hearts that refused to break.
At 6:45 p.m.
Caitlyn’s Triumph Tiger 900 Rally Pro snarled to a stop in the gravel lot, the 888 cc triple’s dying growl swallowed by the midway’s neon heartbeat. The carnival lights painted the bike’s matte khaki in shifting reds and blues. She killed the engine, swung a leg over, and tugged off her helmet—raven-black hair tumbling loose, the Chinatown dye job holding strong. Vi followed, yanking her own lid free, grey eyes sparkling under the floodlights.
They strode toward the TRU checkpoint, boots crunching. Deputy Harbour who had her hair scraped into a regulation bun so tight it looked painful—lowered her flashlight the instant she clocked them.
“Good evening, Corporal Kiramman, Deputy Bretschneider. Back to enjoy the carnival off-duty?”
Caitlyn’s grin was tired but genuine. “Yeah. My varicose veins filed a formal complaint after twelve hours on concrete. Figured we’d give them a night off before four more days of torture.”
Harbour laughed, the sound bright against the evening chill. “Lucky us night-shifters, we only need to work five hours in here till 10 p.m. close, then we’re ghosts in the office. You day-walkers drew the short straw.”
Vi bent, kneading her calves. “Jealous doesn’t cover it.”
Deputy Morrison, Harbour’s partner, waved them through with a lazy salute. “No bag search for Blue Berets. Go have fun.”
Vi paused mid-step. “Wait, We can just… through?”
Harbour leaned in, mock-whisper. “Not unless you two are trying to smuggle an entire armory in those winter jackets and hoodies or else it’s not needed. And that’s the perk of being Blue Berets. We look after our brothers and sisters.”
Caitlyn laughed, the sound lighter than it had been all week. “Don’t let Holbrok catch you bending protocol—he’ll lecture you into next fiscal quarter.”
The deputies chuckled, eyes darting for the commander’s silhouette. “Holbrok’s busy yelling at the funnel-cake guy for blocking Lane 3. You’ve got a 10-minute head start.”
Caitlyn mock-saluted with two fingers. “Debt noted. Beers on us after Pier 7.”
“Got ya ,Have fun” Harbour said to them then returned to her work.
They slipped past the metal detectors, the midway swallowing them—strings of bulbs flickering like low stars, the Ferris wheel’s silhouette looming against the indigo sky. Vi tugged Caitlyn’s sleeve, voice soft. “Feels weird to walking in as civilians.” climbed the swaying gondola, and the wheel lifted them above the county—lights twinkling like spilled diamonds, the Patapsco a black ribbon below.
Vi leaned over the rail, wind teasing her hair. “Look—our apartment’s that tiny glow past the bridge.”
Caitlyn swallowed, eyes not on the view but on Vi’s profile, the way the carnival lights painted gold across her cheekbones. “Vi… Victorie’s tiny ‘arrivederci’ cracked me open. I keep seeing her—Lavender—ten years from now. Lavender hair ties, Grady sulking beside a crib, us teaching her to say ‘sheriff’ before ‘mama’.” Her voice fractured, ocean-blue eyes glistening. “And I’m terrified we’ll miss it all.”
Vi turned, forehead pressing to Caitlyn’s, breath fogging the glass. “We’ll miss some,” she whispered, thumb tracing Caitlyn’s jaw. “But we’ll be there for the parts that matter. First steps in the hallway—me filming, you crying in happiness. First kindergarten drop-off in a tiny dress, both of us in dress blues because we’re late from a call. First time she asks why Mommy has scars and tattoos.” Vi’s voice cracked, grey eyes wet. “We’ll trade raids for midnight feedings, Cait. I’ll learn italian lullabies between range drills.”
Caitlyn’s laugh was wet, trembling. “You in a rocking chair with a bottle and a Glock on the nightstand?”
“Priorities,” Vi deadpanned, then softer, “Lavender Francesca Kiramman. Has a ring to it.”
Caitlyn’s smile broke wide, tears shining. “One day, Violet. When the county lets us breathe.”
Vi leaned in, kissing Caitlyn slow and deep, tasting salt and cotton-candy hope. “Until then, we’ve got each other—and a very jealous golden retriever waiting at home.”
“Jesus Christ, Vi—don’t stand up, you’re rocking the cart!” Caitlyn yelped, grabbing the rail.
Vi laughed, wind whipping her hair. “Caitlyn Kiramman, fearless against bullets and machetes, and yet scared of heights and ghosts—really?”
Caitlyn pulled her down, kissing her again, the wheel pausing them at the very top, the world theirs for one perfect, breathless minute before the city called them back to war.
At 7:30 p.m.
The midway had mellowed into a velvet dusk, strings of Edison bulbs glowing like low stars, the air thick with kettle-corn steam and the distant pop-pop-pop of the balloon gallery. Caitlyn and Vi strolled hand in hand, boots crunching over spilled popcorn, the last of the day-shift ache melting from their legs. Vi’s gaze snagged on the shooting stall: a row of cork-guns, moving duck targets, and a hand-painted sign that made her stop dead.
SHOOT ALL 20 BALLOONS IN 60 SECONDS
GRAND PRIZE: FAST-FOOD DOG TOY SET
Every dollar feeds a shelter pup!
Below the sign, a cartoon corgi and tabby waved tiny paws. Vi’s grey eyes went full puppy. “Cait—Grady. We have to.”
Caitlyn’s grin flashed white in the neon. “On it.” She slapped a crisp dollar on the counter, the stall owner—a wiry woman with a shelter-volunteer lanyard—ringing a cowbell. “Clock starts… NOW!”
Caitlyn rolled her shoulders, lifted the air rifle like it was her AR-15 and hunting rifle, cheek weld perfect. Ten years of range days, CQB drills, and hunting with her mother Cassandra in the Maine woods compressed into sixty seconds of pure flow.
Pop. Pop. Pop-pop-pop.
Balloons burst in a crimson storm—left row, right row, the sneaky one that dipped behind the clown face. The rifle’s pfft-pfft became a metronome; brass casings pinged off the counter like hail. The final balloon exploded on 00:58.7.
The owner’s jaw dropped. “Holy—ma’am, are you a veteran?”
Caitlyn lowered the rifle, casual as breathing. “Just a sheriff’s deputy who grew up with a .22 in her hands.” She flashed her badge wallet, the gold star catching the light. “Grand prize, please.”
The owner handed over the plush fast-food set—burger, fries, milkshake, all squeaky—and Caitlyn tucked it under one arm. Then she peeled a folded hundred from her pocket, pressing it into the owner’s palm. “For the shelter dogs. Make sure they get extra treats.”
The woman’s eyes welled. “Thank you, Deputy. Really.”
Vi bounced on her toes, clutching the toy bag like contraband. “Grady’s gonna lose his mind.”
They turned to leave, but the owner called after them. “Wait—you’re Blue Berets! Saw you two earlier with the little girl. You’re the ones who found her!”
Caitlyn’s smile turned soft, the memory of Victorie’s tiny “arrivederci” still warm in her chest. “Just doing the job.”
The midway had slipped into full neon twilight: strings of bulbs pulsing like heartbeats, the air thick with kettle-corn steam and the metallic clank of rides slowing down. Caitlyn and Vi strolled shoulder-to-shoulder, paper bags of fried Oreos for Grady, a greasy funnel-cake slab for themselves swinging, the carnival’s roar now a lazy murmur. Caitlyn’s cheeks still hurt from laughing on the Ferris wheel; Vi’s grey eyes danced with leftover mischief.
They rounded the corner to the arcade alley, and there it stood: the ancient boxing machine, red vinyl pad cracked, digital scoreboard flickering “HIGH SCORE 987.” Vi froze like a bloodhound on scent.
“Stop. Watch this.”
She rolled her sleeve to reveal her tattoos hidden in cold, bicep flexing under the neon, knuckles popping. Caitlyn, arms full of take-out, deadpanned:
“Vi, it’d be hilarious if you wound up for ten seconds and completely whiffed, smashing the screen instead.”
Vi snorted. “Pfft. Won’t happen, Cait.”
She planted her boots, drew her fist back like a coiled spring, eyes narrowed, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in cartoon concentration.
THWACK—
The punch slid clean past the pad as her knuckles kissed the plastic scoreboard with a sickening CRUNCH.
The screen spider-webbed; the machine let out a wounded beep-beeeeeeeeeeep.
Vi doubled over, cradling her hand. “Fucking hell! My hand!” She shook it like it was on fire, hopping in tiny circles, voice climbing an octave. “Ow-ow-ow—goddamn it!”
Caitlyn’s laugh detonated—head thrown back, water bottles nearly tumbling from the bags. Tears streamed. “Oh my God, Vi—how do you MISS a target the size of a truck?!” She wheezed, knees buckling, one hand clutching her stomach. “I manifested that!”
Vi squatted, cradling her swelling knuckles, shooting Caitlyn the most betrayed puppy glare in history. “Yeah, Caitlyn, real funny. Laugh it up while I ice my ego.”
Caitlyn wiped her eyes, still giggling, and crouched beside her. “But next time you wanna look cool, maybe aim at the bag.”
Vi flipped her off with the good hand.
The carnival’s neon pulse had softened to a lazy heartbeat, strings of bulbs flickering like tired fireflies. The boxing machine’s cracked screen blinked “ERROR” in wounded red, the scoreboard spider-webbed from Vi’s heroic miss. Caitlyn and Vi stood frozen, bags of take-out swinging, the plush fast-food dog toys peeking from Vi’s jacket like guilty accomplices.
A worker in a grease-stained carnival polo jogged up, clipboard in hand, eyes widening at the carnage.
“Five-hundred bucks to replace the panel,” he said, already slapping an OUT OF ORDER sign on the machine with duct tape. “Cash or card?”
Caitlyn sighed the sigh of a woman who had budgeted for churros, not felony-level arcade repair. She fished her credit card from her wallet, the magnetic strip glinting under the bulbs. “Sorry ,My fault,” she told the worker, swiping without hesitation. “Add it to the Kiramman tab of chaos.”
Vi’s cheeks burned hotter than the funnel-cake fryer. She leaned close, voice a grateful whisper against Caitlyn’s ear. “Thank you. I… can’t swing five hundred right now.”
Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes flicked to her, soft despite the dent in her bank account. “It’s fine, Vi. I’ve already accepted I’m the designated mess-cleaner in this relationship.” A teasing smirk tugged her lips. “Part of the girlfriend job description.”
Vi’s awkward smile bloomed, equal parts sheepish and smitten. “I’ll pay you back in foot rubs and midnight pancakes.”
“Deal,” Caitlyn said, pocketing the receipt. She side-eyed Vi as they strolled toward the exit, two churros steaming in paper sleeves. “Violet, this is officially the most expensive carnival that I’ve ever been—all thanks to you.”
Vi pouted, churro halfway to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Cait.”
Caitlyn bumped her shoulder, voice warm. “Worth every penny to see you try to punch a screen and lose. Frame it next to Lavender’s future ultrasound.”
Vi’s pout melted into a laugh, sugar dusting her lips. “You’re evil.”
“And you’re broke,” Caitlyn shot back, stealing a bite of Vi’s churro. “Let’s go feed the real hellhound before he eats the couch.”
They walked into the parking lot hand in hand, the carnival lights shrinking behind them, the Triumph Tiger 900 waiting like a loyal steed. Vi tucked the dog-toy bag under her jacket, already rehearsing her apology squeaker symphony for Grady.
One expensive, perfect night—paid in full.
The Tiger 900 roared to life under them, Grady’s new toys squeaking in the top-case, the carnival lights shrinking in the rear-view. Two churros, one bruised hand, five hundred bucks lighter—and still the best date night Baltimore County had ever seen.
At 8:10 p.m.
Caitlyn’s key scraped the lock, the deadbolt thunked open, and the door swung into… silence.
No golden blur.
No frantic tap-dance of claws.
No 70-pound torpedo of fur and joy.
Caitlyn’s stomach dropped. “Vi, I have a bad feeling.” She dropped the carnival bags on the coffee table, the plush rocket rolling out like a guilty witness. Vi’s grey eyes widened; she kicked the door shut behind them.
They split without a word, Vi diving behind the couch, Caitlyn stalking toward the kitchen. A faint crunch-crunch-crunch floated from the darkness.
Caitlyn flicked the light. And saw Grady sat in the middle of a kibble crime scene, face buried in a shredded 20-pound bag like a furry vacuum cleaner. His cheeks bulged, tail helicopter-wagging, eyes shining with pure bliss. A single kibble clung to his nose like a badge of honor.
Caitlyn face-palmed so hard it echoed. “OH MY GOD, VI—GRADY’S HAVING A BUFFET!”
Vi skidded in, took one look, and clutched her forehead. “He’s gonna be a sphere by morning!”
Caitlyn lunged, grabbing the scruff of Grady’s neck. “Bad boy! Bad! You’ll bloat! You’ll barf! You’ll—” She froze mid-scold, both paws lifted like a tiny criminal. Grady’s ears flattened, his “I-regret-nothing-but-I’ll-act-sorry” face in full effect.
Vi knelt, scooping kibbles into a plastic tub. “Guess the churros are ours now, buddy.”
Five minutes of maternal fury later. Grady sat with his head bowed, tail thumping out a slow, mournful thump… thump… as Cait lashed out her angry mom mode while Vi knelt to swept the last kibble avalanche into the container, then stood on tiptoe to shove it onto the only shelf Grady couldn’t raid—the one only Caitlyn’s 6” reach could access without a step-stool.
Caitlyn hoisted the tub like a trophy. “New rule: kibble lives in Fort Knox.”
Grady let out the saddest huff, then flopped dramatically on his side, belly comically round, one paw over his eyes in Oscar-worthy remorse.
Vi snorted. “He’s auditioning for a dog-food commercial: ‘Before: starving. After: regret.’”
Awhile later, the living-room lamp painted everything in honey-gold: the lavender vase on the counter, the half-eaten carnival churros on the coffee table, and Grady’s golden fur as he sat on the carpet like a scolded schoolboy.
Reality TV show of some housewife yelling about salad tongs flickered on the screen, but Caitlyn’s full attention was on the dog who had just inhaled three cups of kibble and was now performing Oscar-level remorse.
Grady’s big brown eyes tracked every crumb that fell from Caitlyn’s churro. Licking his muzzle with a slow, hopeful lick and his ears pinned flat in maximum “I’m a good boy, I swear” mode.
Caitlyn crossed her long legs on the sofa, cinnamon sugar dusting her fingertips.
“No, Grady. These are mine now. This is the consequence of your actions, buddy.”
Grady’s eyes went full Puss-in-Boots, glistening like polished chestnuts.
Caitlyn narrowed her ocean-blues. “Don’t you weaponize those eyes at me, sir. I’ve stared down machetes and guns”
She popped the last bite into her mouth, chewing with theatrical smugness.
Grady’s whole body deflated. Tail drooped. He padded to his orthopedic bed beside the TV, circled three times, and flopped with the heaviest huff a sixty-five-pound dog could produce—one paw dramatically draped over his eyes.
Vi, curled on the opposite couch cushion, snorted into her sleeve. “He just activated airplane-mode guilt.”
Caitlyn lasted exactly four minutes.
She slid off the sofa, bare feet whispering across hardwood, and crouched beside the bed.
“Hey, Captain Drama.”
She ruffled the velvet ears that smelled faintly of kibble dust. Grady peeked one eye open, tail giving a single, traitorous wag.
“I’m not mad, okay?” Her voice dropped to the gentle register she saved for frightened kids and Vi after nightmares. “You scared us, tearing into that bag. Dogs bloat, buddy. I need you around for a long, long time.”
She scratched under his chin until the tail thumped a forgiving rhythm. “We’ll walk in twenty—burn off that kibble belly. Then Mommy’s gotta get back to work in the midnight, but I promise I’ll come home and we’ll split a pup-cup. Deal?”
Grady rolled onto his back, paws in the air, belly comically round—like a furry beach ball with legs. Caitlyn laughed, pressing a kiss between his eyes. “Attaboy.”
Vi leaned over the couch arm, phone flashlight glowing. “Photo evidence for the group chat: ‘Corporal Kiramman, terror of triads, defeated by puppy eyes.’”
Caitlyn flipped her off with a sugar-dusted finger, then scooped Grady’s leash from the hook. “Come on, Hellhound. Let’s walk before you photosynthesize into a kibble balloon.”
Grady sprang up, tail helicoptering, the earlier remorse already a distant memory.
Vi watched them head for the door—Caitlyn 6’0” of exhausted grace, Grady prancing like he hadn’t just committed grand theft kibble—and felt her chest tighten with the kind of love that didn’t need words.
One midnight raid loomed, but right now, under the lavender-scented glow of home, everything was exactly enough.
At 10:45 p.m.
The harbor wind carried the briny bite of the Patapsco, sharp enough to sting the back of Caitlyn’s throat. She had swapped the TRU combat uniform for an old UBalt hoodie and black leggings, the fabric soft against the day’s bruises. Grady’s leash clicked in rhythm with his nails on the sidewalk, the golden retriever sniffing every lamppost like it held state secrets.
Under the sodium glow of a streetlight, Caitlyn stopped, hands buried in her hoodie pocket. Grady squatted, tail wagging in slow, satisfied arcs. She glanced east—past the dark silhouettes of cranes and stacked containers—toward Piers 1 through 8. Her wristwatch caught the light: 10:47.
“Quick power-nap, then back to the office,” she murmured. “Midnight’s coming fast.”
A wet crunch snapped her attention downward. Grady, mid-poop, had twisted to investigate his own masterpiece.
“STOP—BAD BOY, DISGUSTING!”
She lunged, yanking the leash. Grady froze, one paw lifted, looking betrayed. Caitlyn snatched yesterday’s Baltimore Sun from her back pocket, scooped the evidence with a grimace, and marched to the corner trash can. The lid clanged shut like a judge’s gavel.
Across the black water, Pier 6 was supposed to be empty at this hour.
But It wasn’t.
From the shadows of an open forty-foot container, three figures worked in silence. Headlamps bobbed. A heavy splash—then another. Not trash bags. Bricks. Vacuum-sealed, duct-taped bricks the size of cinder blocks, each one sinking with a muted thoomp that rippled the harbor’s skin.
One man paused, scanning the opposite shore with night-vision binoculars. Caitlyn’s silhouette—tall, hoodie up, dog at heel—was nothing more than another late-night walker under the lamp. He resumed tossing.
Splash.
Splash.
Splash.
Fourteen kilos per brick.
Forty bricks per container.
Tonight’s “disposal” was 560 kilos of 14K’s purest China-white, rerouted from a busted Vancouver pipeline and now vanishing into the Patapsco’s silt. By dawn, divers in unmarked Zodiacs would retrieve every package, ferry them up the Jones Falls, and cut them into Towson dorms and Essex corners.
But Caitlyn never saw them, instead she tugged Grady’s leash. “Let’s go, stinker. Mama’s got a date with destiny—and you’ve got a date with mouthwash.”
Grady trotted happily, soda toy squeaking in his jaws, blissfully unaware that the river he’d peed beside ten minutes ago was swallowing an empire’s worth of poison.
The midnight bell was tolling.
And the Blue Berets were already suiting up.
At 11:20 p.m.
Back in the Sheriff’s office in Towson, the briefing room smelled of burnt coffee and gun oil. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead like angry hornets. The overhead fluorescents hummed like angry hornets. Every seat was taken; BPD officers Kwan and Gonzales rubbed shoulders with Steb and Loris who volunteered to stay for their commando/friends— Cait and Vi—and the rest of the TRU night-shifters with AR-15s slung, tactical helmets clipped to vests now dressed head-to-toe in midnight-blue fire-resistant combat uniform, the exact shade of the French CRS (Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité).
The change had dropped two weeks ago, straight from Sheriff Greyson’s desk:
“Green blends into the woods and Dark blue disappears against Baltimore’s night sky and brick row-houses.
We own the shadows now.” With their faces masked as usual, the room looked like a Paris riot squad had teleported into Towson.
In front of them, a whiteboard dominated the front wall, red marker scrawled across a satellite photo of Pier 7:
• HYDRA – PHASE 2
23:59 – Container 40-FT “TEA”
560 kg China-white
Divers on standby
NO ARRESTS – FOLLOW THE BRICKS
Commander Wang stood in plainclothes for the first time anyone could remember—black hoodie, no beret. His voice cut through the static.
“This is the head, not the tail. We let the bricks swim tonight. We learn the route. We burn the river later.” He said as he tapped the board then pointed at the TRU members.
“Harbour, Morrison ,Steb and Loris—white panel vans ,south gate. Lock Pier 7 like a vault. Make sure no one gets in or out. Balzac, Basson—patrol boat, 200 yards off the pier. If the plan gone wrong, you pursuit them don’t let them get away. And finally Kwan, González, Bretschneider ,stay in the Command Sprinter, rooftop overwatch. Vi, you’re Kiramman’s guard dog. Anything smells wrong, you’re going in to protect her first.”
Vi’s grey eyes flicked to Caitlyn, who was already sliding brown contacts over ocean-blue irises, the soft Kevlar vest flexing under her hoodie like a second heartbeat. Catherine Leung was reassembling herself, piece by piece.
Wang’s gaze swept the room. “Questions?”
Twenty throats answered in perfect unison:
“NO, SIR.” The room exploded into motion—boots thundering, rifles clacking, radios chirping alive. Caitlyn caught Vi’s hand for one heartbeat, squeezing once.
“See you on the other side, Boot.”
Vi’s grin was all teeth. “I’ll always be on your side.”
They vanished into the corridor—plainclothes ghost and green-armored avalanche—toward the midnight that would either break the 14K or swallow them whole.
At 12:27 p.m.
In the parking lot, the Sprinter vans fired up in sequence, headlights carving white tunnels through the frost. Caitlyn slipped into the back of the Command van, hood up, earpiece hot. Vi took shotgun, AR-15 across her lap, thumb tracing the safety like a worry stone.
Kwan keyed the mic. “All units, Hydra is green. Roll quiet.”
Engines growled. Tires hissed on ice.
Baltimore held its breath.
And somewhere across the black water, fourteen kilos sank toward the silt, waiting for the divers who would never see the net closing above them.
Midnight was coming.
And the Blue Berets were already moving.
At 00:30 – Pier 7 Container Field, Patapsco River
The air at Pier 7 was a living thing: thick, diesel-sour, and cold enough to bite the lungs. Floodlights on the cranes threw long, skeletal shadows between the stacked containers—forty-foot steel monoliths rising like the walls of a drowned city. Every footstep echoed, metal on metal, heartbeat on heartbeat.
Harbour and Morrison had sealed the south gate three minutes ago; their white panel vans sat dark and silent, a cork in the bottle. Inside the Command Sprinter, Vi’s AR-15 lay across her thighs like a sleeping predator, her knuckles white on the handguard. Caitlyn slid the side door open with a hiss of hydraulics.
Vi’s grey eyes locked on her, wide and glassy.
Caitlyn reached in, ruffled Vi’s fluffy, off-duty hair—Grady-style.
“Don’t worry, Boot,” she whispered, the words barely louder than the wind. Then she was gone, swallowed by the container maze.
Inside the labyrinth, Caitlyn’s flashlight carved a thin white tunnel through the gloom. Each breath tasted of rust and river rot. The stacks rose three high, turning the pier into a canyon of corrugated steel. Every corner was a potential kill-box:
Left turn — rifle muzzle waiting.
Right turn — knife in the dark.
Her pulse hammered in her ears, louder than the gulls overhead. The soft Kevlar vest under her hoodie felt suddenly paper-thin. She pictured Hector Hernandez—body shredded by her ,Vi and Steb’s AR, the smell of cordite and copper—and her stomach lurched.
Fifty yards to the pickup point.
Forty.
Thirty.
The panic hit like a flash-bang behind her eyes. Her chest clamped as lungs seized.
Vision tunneled to a pinhole.
She slammed her back against a container wall, the cold steel biting through her hoodie. Slides to the ground, knees to chest, arms locked around her skull.
Henry’s body tuned cold on the hospital bed despite she tries to save him. Harland’s heartless wrench swing that aims his head. “Am I going to die?” Henry’s voice echoed through her skull like a ghost that haunts her forever.
Vi’s voice, phantom-soft:
“The hole never closes, Cait. You just learn to live around it. When the beast rattles the cage, you breathe it back to sleep.”
She forced air in—four counts—held—four counts—out.
The world steadied, edges sharpening.
Back in the Command Sprinter, Wang’s eyes narrowed on the monitor. Caitlyn’s feed showed her crumpled, flashlight rolling in a slow circle.
“TRU A 0104 Kiramman, Command—talk to me. You’re on the deck. We can scrub to surveillance. Say the word.”
Vi was already half out of her seat, AR slung, nails digging bloody crescents into her palms.
Kwan’s hand clamped her shoulder—steady.
Caitlyn’s voice crackled back, a threadbare whisper:
“Negative, sir. I’m green. Continuing. Over.”
Wang exhaled through his teeth, the memory of Harrison—his academy brother, rope in a Towson apartment—flashing like a muzzle flare. “Copy. Earpiece hot. One wrong breath, you call it. Stay sharp, Cait. Over.”
At 00:40
Caitlyn rose, legs trembling but moving. She wiped the sweat from her brow, the salt stinging her eyes. Hand brushed the hidden Glock 43 on her waist—still there. She rounded the final corner.
The sodium lamp sputtered overhead, vomiting a jaundiced glow that bled across the steel canyon. Caitlyn rose from the concrete like a ghost reanimating, migraine a spike behind her eyes, the world still tilting from the panic attack. She pressed a palm to her forehead, sweat slicking her skin, and hissed through clenched teeth:
“You can’t win the war if the white flag’s out before the first shot, Caitlyn. You swore to protect lives. You break first, you protect nothing. No mustn’t show weakness.”
She forced one foot forward, then another, boots scraping frost and grit. The containers closed in—five forty-footers stacked in a serpentine nest, a dragon’s lair of corrugated steel. The air thickened with diesel rot and the river’s black breath. Every shadow pulsed. Every corner screamed ambush.
She stepped into the nest.
CRACK.
An AK-47 buttstock exploded into her temple.
The sodium lamp flickered once, twice—like a dying heartbeat—then steadied, vomiting its sickly orange glow over the killing floor. Caitlyn’s vision swam in white-hot shards, the buttstock’s impact still ringing in her skull. Blood trickled warm down her temple, mixing with sweat. She was on one knee, the world tilting, when Glasses Guy’s voice cut through the haze: She noticed this man was the same quiet face from the carnival food court in the afternoon—no tattoos, no flags, just a bland smile while she and Vi savoring over Asian foods.
He was Invisible.
Now lethal.
“A TRU dog without the toys is nothing,” he snarled, racking the AK with a sound like tearing metal.
The barrel kissed her temple—cold, final.
“Next round’s for your red-haired wife, Caitlyn Kiramman.”
Her real name, a curse carved in the air.
She closed her eyes.
Vi. Lavender. Grady.
The trigger finger whitened. Then—the sky split open.
WEE-OO-WEE-OO-WEE-OO
The first siren was a banshee’s scream, tearing through the container maze from the south gate.
A second joined—higher, sharper—from the east access road.
A third, a fourth, a fifth—a full symphony of red-and-blue fury, Wang’s entire orchestra unleashed.
Every patrol unit, every Sprinter, every Zodiac on the river—all sirens, all lights, all at once.
The strobes hit like artillery:
Glasses flinched, muzzle dipping a hair’s breadth.
That hair’s breadth was all Caitlyn needed.
Her fist—forged on the punching bags in the TRU training center—snapped upward.
CRUNCH.
Jawbone shattered like porcelain.
The AK spun away, clattering.
Glasses folded, a puppet with cut strings. Caitlyn lunged, scooping the rifle, rolling behind an overturned table as the night exploded.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
Bullets shredded steel, sparks spitting like angry stars.
She pressed the PTT, voice raw but steady:
“WANG—CONTACT! SEND EVERYTHING! THEY’RE FUCKING EVERYWHERE!”
Three 14K shooters burst from the shadows—tiger tattoos flashing under muzzle flare.
Caitlyn exhaled, sighted, squeezed.
One.
Two.
Three.
Bodies dropped like marionettes, her AR-15 work a blur of surgical precision.
Vi’s voice detonated in her earpiece:
“CAIT, I’M COMING—HOLD ON!”
Wang’s roar followed:
“ALL UNITS—BREACH! BREACH! BREACH!”
The containers shook with boots and sirens.
Caitlyn chambered another round, blood dripping from her temple, ocean-blue eyes locked on the dark.
The beast was out of its cage.
And it was hungry.
At 00:45
The sirens were a living storm now, a wall of red-and-blue lightning that painted the container maze in strobing war colors. Inside the Command Sprinter, Vi was already half out the door, AR-15 slung, boots hitting gravel before the van fully stopped.
Wang’s hand clamped her shoulder like a vice.
“Boot—gear first.”
He threw the midnight-navy bundle at her, Vi caught it mid-stride, the fabric heavy with purpose. Wang was already moving—helmet down, NVGs flipped, plate carrier snapping into place over his belt like it had never left. The man was a machine, 12 years of muscle memory.
“Steb, Loris—south gate, double-time!” he barked into the PTT.
“Alpha-Bravo, rescue package. Rest hold perimeter.”
Thirty seconds later, Steb and Loris sprinted up—Loris with the bulletproof shield angled like a battering ram, Steb’s rifle already shouldered. Wang tossed them NVGs and gas-mask bags. “Mount up.”
He strode to the pier’s control shack, shoulder-checked the door, and flipped the master breaker.
Every light on Pier 7 died.
Floodlights, cranes, sodium lamps—gone.
The container field plunged into absolute, velvet black.
Wang’s voice cut through the sudden silence, calm as a scalpel:
“Now we own the night.”
He glanced at Vi—her face a mask of terror under the helmet’s shadow.
“Mask on, Boot. CS is our cloak.”
He patted the 40mm launcher slung across his chest, the belt of CS rounds glinting like a promise, a promise to every Blue Beret who’d ever bled under his command.
Vi yanked the gas mask over her face, the seal hissing. Steb and Loris followed, NVGs dropping with a soft clack.
Four green eyes glowed in the dark like wolves on the hunt.
Wang voice low and lethal as he does his final brief “Alpha-Bravo, we are going dark. Moving on Kiramman’s last known. Vi—you’re on point. Loris—shield up. Steb—cover high. No one touches our wolf.”
The four shadows melted into the container maze, boots silent on frost, NVGs painting the world in ghost-green.
CS canisters clinked softly at Wang’s hip.
The river held its breath.
Hydra had bitten. But the wolves were coming.
At 01:30
The midnight-navy ghosts glided as one lethal organism down the claustrophobic steel corridor, boots whispering over frost-slick concrete like the breath of predators, each step a muted crunch that reverberated off the corrugated walls. The river’s black exhalation curled around their ankles, thick with diesel rot, the metallic tang of blood yet to be spilled, and the briny sting of the Patapsco’s icy breath. Commander Wang led the stack, AR-15 suppressor kissing the darkness, the PEQ-15 laser a razor-thin green filament slicing corners with surgical menace, its faint hum barely audible over the low thump-thump of their synchronized heartbeats. Loris front, bulletproof shield angled like a battering ram forged in hell, its polycarbonate surface glinting faintly under NVG green, Glock steady in his off-hand, knuckles bone-white, the grip’s textured polymer biting into his skin. Steb and Vi flanked, rifles up, eyes scanning high-low in a synchronized dance of death, the weight of their 39.5-pound kits pressing into shoulders and hips, sweat already beading under Kevlar despite the 20°F chill.
The containers loomed—forty-foot walls of corrugated steel rising three high, transforming the pier into a labyrinthine canyon where every shadow pulsed with ambush, the air a vise heavy with rust, salt, and the faint chemical bite of lingering CS residue. They flowed in slice-the-pie rhythm, a deadly ballet of shoulder grazing steel, cold and unyielding, sending a shiver through their arms as their muzzle clearing the corner with predatory precision, the suppressor’s matte finish drinking the dark.
Laser painting threats in crimson judgment, a silent promise of death. Repeat, faster, tighter, deadlier, the click of safeties and creak of vests a heartbeat in the void.
At 01:53
Steb’s veteran instinct—honed in a decade of raids—snapped like a tripwire. A rifle barrel glinted, barely protruding from shadow at 11 o’clock high, the suppressor’s dull sheen a betrayal in the NVG green.
No hesitation.
Phut.
The suppressor coughed, a venomous whisper softer than a lover’s sigh.
The barrel jerked skyward; a body plummeted from the catwalk, crashing with a wet, bone-crunching thud that reverberated like a gunshot in the steel canyon, the scent of fresh blood mingling with diesel.
Steb’s voice crackled through the PTT, a surgeon’s calm over a killing field:
“Shot fired. Threat neutralized. Over.”
They peeled around the corner, rifles tracking in perfect, lethal arcs, muzzles hungry, the air thick with the copper reek of death and the faint sizzle of sparks from a stray round grazing steel.
Clear.
But the darkness screamed more as the fortress of five containers stacked in a predatory coil, the air choking with CS residue, the acrid burn of tear gas stinging nostrils even through sealed masks, and the copper tang of fresh blood. Vi’s laser danced across a tiger tattoo flashing on a wrist—
Phut-phut.
Two rounds, center mass, the gangster’s chest exploding in a crimson mist, the wet slap of his body hitting concrete drowned by the thoomp of Wang’s 40mm launcher. A CS round arced high, bursting in a white inferno that rolled like a tidal wave of dry ice, the chemical sting searing eyes and throats, 14K voices cursing in Cantonese as they gagged, hands clawing at faces in futile agony.
At 02:30
In the heart of the hydra’s lair ,Gunfire continues erupted ahead—CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—Caitlyn’s AK, a surgeon’s scalpel carving through the chaos, each round a precise, lethal incision, the ping of spent casings bouncing off steel, hot brass grazing her knuckles. As the muzzle flares was the only light source of darkness to identify the enemy’s location.
Suddenly a bullet tore through her thigh as she tries to dodge the rapid fire of a heavily modified rifle that shoot a hundred of 5.56 rounds in 10 seconds, a searing white-hot spike that buckled her leg, blood gushing warm and sticky, soaking her pants in seconds. She dove back behind an overturned table behind fallen furnitures, the wood splintering under a hail of rounds, sparks spitting like angry stars.
Fuck—leg’s hit.
She yanked her belt off, the leather biting her fingers, and cinched it above the wound, the buckle clacking tight, pain lancing through her as she twisted it into a makeshift tourniquet, blood slowing to a trickle. Her AK magazine clattered empty; she slammed a fresh one home from a dead gangster nearby with one blood-slick hand, Glock half-drawn, her eyes wild with defiance.
Meanwhile In the dark alley not too far behind Caitlyn, Vi’s boots pounded the concrete, heart slamming against her ribs, a war drum for Caitlyn, the weight of her kit dragging at her shoulders. “CAIT—HOLD ON!” Vi whispered to herself as they breached the nest, a storm of midnight-navy and vengeance.
As Caitlyn headshot a few more gangsters as they move to next cover, Vi kicked a gas mask thigh bag across the floor, the pouch skidding to Caitlyn’s boots with a desperate scrape.
“DON’T BREATHE!” VI’s voice crackled through her earpiece, tone urgent as Wang’s launcher thoomped in a relentless triad—
THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.
CS bloomed, a white-hot inferno devouring the nest, tendrils curling like the river’s vengeful breath, the chemical burn searing lungs even through anticipation.
Caitlyn snatched the mask, fingers trembling but forged in academy gas chambers—filter click, seal hiss.
Tears and saliva fogged the lens in a heartbeat, the plastic tasting of rubber and fear, but she breathed, the training a lifeline in the burning dark.
Wang’s voice, muffled but a beacon “Move! Move! Move!”
CS choked the air like a living demon, searing lungs, blinding eyes, turning screams to rasping gasps, the chemical sting a fire in every breath. Gangsters dropped rifles, knives clattering in surrender, the clang of metal on concrete sharp, hands clawing at faces as they gagged and retched, tears streaming in futile rivers. their rifle mounted flashlight stabbed through the haze, a white-hot blade pinning each face in merciless clarity, the beam cutting through CS like a scalpel. “SHERIFF—HANDS UP! UNDER ARREST FOR ASSAULT ON OFFICER, ATTEMPTED MURDER!”
Twenty-plus 14K knelt as the rescue team approached and yanked their shirts over heads in humiliated defeat, the fabric damp with sweat and tears, zip-ties snapping like breaking bones under Vi, Steb, Loris, and Caitlyn’s hands, the plastic biting into wrists. No weapons missed—pockets emptied with a rustle, ankles searched with rough tugs, scalps patted with ruthless precision, the air thick with the scent of fear and chemical burn. No mercy given. The nest was theirs.
03:30
Caitlyn crusting her brow, stood at the end of the line, her flashlight beam cutting through the haze to light Vi’s path. Her ocean-blue eyes, glazed with pain, tracked every movement, the beam trembling in her grip. Her thigh throbbed, the makeshift belt-tourniquet slowly loosening, the leather slick with blood and sweat, slipping unnoticed down her leg. Each heartbeat sent a warm pulse of blood soaking her pants, the fabric clinging cold and heavy. Her face paled, a sickly green creeping in, the world tilting like a ship in a storm, but she stood, jaw clenched, flashlight steady.
Vi, hands deft despite trembling, patted down the final gangster, her gloves slick with CS residue and sweat. “Clear,” she called, voice muffled but sharp, zip-tying the last wrist with a snap. Caitlyn’s beam wavered, her vision tunneling, the container walls spinning. She leaned against a container, mask fogged with tears and breath, blood crusting her brow like a warrior’s crown, the metallic taste lingering on her tongue, eyes glistening with relief and exhaustion whirl blood slowly completely soaked her pants.
Vi’s hand found hers, fingers intertwining through Kevlar gloves, the rough texture grounding them, a silent vow etched in sweat and blood.
Wang clapped Caitlyn’s shoulder, his muffled voice a rare softness through the mask:
“Welcome back to the pack, Kiramman.”
Cait smiled back as her vision eventually blurred, the world fading to grey. She slumped, unconscious, the AK clattering from her grip.
Wang’s eyes snapped to her, his heart lurching. “SHIT! Kiramman’s down!” His tone urgent as he press his ptt to request emergency medical assistance “Central, Wang, 11-99 code 30 asap, over” he then knelt and spot her pants drenched in blood under the light of his helmet, as her makeshift tourniquet barely holding. “Anders—trauma kit, now!”
One rip-cord pull, Steb’s black drop leg IFAK tore open, red cross facing the sky as he commands Vi and Loris to turn on the flashlight mounted on their helmet while they tore at Caitlyn’s pants with combat scissors, the fabric ripping to reveal a gaping thigh wound, blood pulsing weakly. Steb’s gloved hand snapped the CAT-7 tourniquet free. Velcro rasp, windlass rod clack.
He looped it three inches above the wound, yanked until the Velcro screamed, then spun the rod six full turns until the radial pulse vanished and the bleeding dropped to a trickle as Vi’s trembling, blood-smeared hands cupping Cait’s pale face, her whisper a prayer: “Stay with me, Cait. Stay.”
He then rip her gas mask off and use his sharpie to scrawled “TQ 00:06” across her forehead in block letters. Trauma shears snip-snip-snip — the fabric parted like paper.
Steb looked deep into the wound: 11 mm entry, posterior thigh, no exit, muscle shredded, femoral artery dancing a hair’s breadth away.
Steb’s fingers — still steady from packing a Belgian Malinois in 2010 — plunged into the channel.
First pack, second pack, third pack.
He buried all twelve feet of Z-fold gauze, knuckles disappearing to the second joint, the metallic scent of blood thick enough to taste. Steb stuffed gauze deep, the fabric soaking crimson instantly, his hands slick as he packed more, pressure firm. “Hold on, Corporal—stay with us!”
Vi’s muffled voice cracked, talking fast to keep Caitlyn conscious, her hands trembling as she gripped Caitlyn’s. “Cait, you’re okay, you’re here, keep those eyes open, don’t sleep—” but no response given except the faint breathing noises from underneath Cait’s gas mask as she struggled to keep herself conscious.
“Pack it deep, Anders—DEEP!” Wang barked as pressure pad slammed over the packed gauze, elastic wrap cinched until Caitlyn’s leg blanched white above the tourniquet.
Steb’s muffled voice, low and calm: “Bleeding controlled. Hypothermia protocol.” He then ripped his Mylar blanket from the pouch, crinkling like foil as he cocooned her from shoulders to boots, tucking edges under the soft shell ballistic vest.
Wang keyed the PTT, iron in his muffled voice:
“All units—Pier 7 secure. 22 detainees. arterial bleed controlled. Request medevac and CID carpet sweep the entire pier 7. over.”
Steb rocked back on his heels, beard streaked with Caitlyn’s blood, eyes never leaving her chest rise-and-fall.
“Wolf’s still breathing, Commander.”
The ambulance screamed in ninety seconds later.
The Emts lifted her onto the stretcher, tourniquet bright orange against pale skin — and the doors slammed like a coffin lid.
Vi climbed in after, fingers still tangled with Caitlyn’s, refusing to let go.
Steb followed, IFAK pouch empty, hands steady as the doors slamming shut.
The ambulance rocked, sirens screaming, red-blue lights strobing through the windows. Caitlyn lay on the stretcher, breathing mask fogging with each shallow breath, IV lines snaking into her arm, blood bags dripping fast. Vi sat beside her, mask gone, grey eyes red-rimmed, her hands shaking horribly as she clutched Caitlyn’s, the skin cold and slick with sweat. Steb, opposite, monitored vitals, his own hands steady but eyes haunted.
Caitlyn’s eyes finally fluttered open to meet Vi’s. A weak smile curved her lips under the mask. “Don’t worry, Vi… I’ll be okay,” she rasped, voice faint but fierce, squeezing Vi’s trembling hand.
Vi’s tears spilled, her voice breaking. “You better, Cait. Lavender needs her mom.”
Steb’s grin was shaky. “This wolf’s too stubborn to quit.”
The ambulance roared toward Shock Trauma, Caitlyn’s pulse steadying under the medics’ hands, Vi’s grip her anchor, the city’s lights blurring into a promise of survival.
Hydra’s first head was severed by the ghostly dark wolves…
At 03:35
The ambulance doors exploded open, the freezing harbor wind whipping through the bay as the EMTs shoved Caitlyn’s stretcher out, wheels clattering onto the asphalt. The hospital’s floodlights bathed her in harsh white, her face ashen, oxygen mask fogging with shallow breaths.
Two A&E nurses in navy scrubs sprinted out, slamming the hospital gurney down beside the ambulance.
“Transfer—on three! One, two, THREE!”
They lifted her in one practiced heave, the gurney’s wheels screeching as they bolted for the trauma bay, monitors beeping frantic warnings. Steb jogged behind, beard streaked with Caitlyn’s blood, voice cutting through the chaos like a field radio:
“GSW right posterior thigh, 11-mike-mike entry, no exit. Femoral spared by centimetres. CAT-7 applied 00:06, three full turns, radial pulse absent. QuickClot packed deep—three rolls. Israeli bandage pressure dressing. Hypothermia blanket. Bullet still in situ.”
The lead nurse, ponytail whipping, didn’t break stride. “Got it. You just bought her thirty minutes she didn’t have. Thank you.”
Steb’s reply was automatic, the same words he’d used in Bagram and Kandahar:
“Just doing my job as a combat medic, ma’am.”
The trauma doors slammed shut behind them, red SURGERY light snapping on like a war beacon.
Vi’s boots skidded to a stop at the threshold, fingers still reaching for Caitlyn’s hand as the gurney disappeared.
Steb placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
“She’s in the best hands now, Boot. Let them work.” The A&E doors slammed shut, the surgery room light flicking on with a sterile snap, fluorescent glare spilling into the hall.
Awhile later, outside the OR. Vi sat hunched in a plastic chair, her TRU blouse unbuttoned at the collar, the midnight-navy fabric clinging to her sweat-damp skin, Kevlar vest discarded in a heap beside her. Her gas mask hung from her belt, the rubber seal leaving red indents on her cheeks. Tears carved clean tracks through the grime on her face, her grey eyes red-rimmed, hands twisting the hem of her blouse until the seams groaned. Steb stood beside her, his own uniform rumpled, plate carrier slung over the chair’s back, the weight of the night etched in the lines around his eyes. His thick beard shadowed a clenched jaw, but his hand rested on Vi’s shoulder, steady, rubbing slow circles through the fabric.
“Don’t worry, Vi,” Steb murmured, voice low and calm, like a lullaby over a storm. “She’s a warrior. She’ll pull through.”
Vi’s sob hitched, and she buried her face in his shoulder, the coarse weave of his blouse scratching her cheek, his warmth a fragile anchor. “I can’t lose her, Steb,” she whispered, voice breaking, tears soaking the fabric.
The OR doors swung open. The surgeon emerged, surgical mask dangling, scrubs spattered with Caitlyn’s blood, the sterile blue fabric stark against the hall’s white. “Which of you is Miss Kiramman’s partner?”
Vi shot up, wiping tears with trembling hands, her blouse creased and clinging. “Me—her fiancé. Is she okay?” Her voice cracked, heavy with dread, grey eyes pleading.
The surgeon’s grin broke through the tension, his scrubs rustling as he pulled off his cap. “She’s stable. Bullet’s out of her thigh—missed the aorta by a hair. You guys got her here just in time; a few minutes later, blood loss would’ve taken her.” His voice softened, concern lingering. “We’re moving her to the women’s ward upstairs. You can stay with her soon.”
Vi’s eyes drifted through the OR window to Caitlyn, asleep under Valium, her face pale but peaceful, IV lines snaking into her arm, the hospital gown a stark white against her bloodied skin.
At 04:45 a.m.
Caitlyn lay in the hospital bed, pulse steady on the monitor’s beep-beep, her thigh swathed in gauze, the gown’s thin cotton cool against her fevered skin. Vi followed the nurses to transfer Caitlyn to the ward upstairs as she held her hand—cold from winter, always cold—and warmed it between her own, calluses rough from the AR-15’s grip. She pressed a kiss to Caitlyn’s forehead, the skin clammy but alive, her lips lingering on the faint taste of salt and hospital antiseptic.
In the ward, Vi slumped into a chair, fingers still tangled with Caitlyn’s, and fell asleep, her head dipping, blouse creased into wrinkles. Steb sprawled on a sofa nearby, his TRU uniform jacket draped over the armrest, beard shadowing a tired grin as he dozed, one boot still on, the other kicked off.
The women’s ward hummed with fluorescent light, sun slicing through blinds in golden slats, dust motes dancing in the beams as “07:35” flickers in VI’s wristwatch. Caitlyn’s eyes fluttered open, the world sharp with antiseptic sting and the soft whirr of the monitor. She saw Vi, her fluffy hair spilling over her face, and Steb’s snores rumbling. A weak smile curved her lips. “Hey, Violet,” she rasped, voice hoarse from the breathing tube, “ever told you how adorable you look when you’re asleep?”
Vi jolted awake, grey eyes wide, cupping Caitlyn’s face with trembling hands, the gown’s cotton rough under her fingers. She kissed her gently, lips soft but desperate, tasting of tears and relief. “You’re awake!” she choked, tears spilling. “You scared me, Cait—I thought I’d lose you forever.”
Caitlyn’s grin was faint but fierce, her finger wiping Vi’s tears, the IV line tugging at her skin. “Violet, I’m the dirt on your fingernails—you’re not getting rid of me. I’m waiting for our marriage certificate, Lavender’s birth, all of it. My forever with you.” she gently cupped Vi’s face, leaning in for another tender kiss. The hospital bed creaked softly beneath them, but in her eagerness, Cait accidentally tore her stitched wound. She groaned softly in pain, and Vi laughed softly, reassuring her as she gently guided Cait to lie back on the bed to rest and recover.
Steb coughed, awake, his beard scratching as he grinned. “Glad you’re alive, Cait, but I’m giving you lovebirds some privacy.” He stood, jacket slung over his shoulder, boots heavy on the floor. “I’ll grab breakfast—you’re a patient, I’m paying. Rest up.”
Vi’s tears slowed, her hand still in Caitlyn’s, the ward’s light wrapping them in a fragile dawn….
The Blue Berets’ heart beat on. Hydra’s war waited, but love held the line.