POV: Hunter
Zero.
The blast under the comforter was a muffled, monstrous THUMP. It felt like a giant had kicked him in the ribs. The sound was contained but still immense, a deep, pressure-wave BOOM that vibrated in his bones and made his teeth ache. Even through his fingers, the noise was a physical assault.
A searing, white-hot light burned through the fabric of the comforter and his closed eyelids, staining his vision red. The force of the concussive blast lifted him a few inches off the floor before slamming him back down.
For a moment, there was nothing. A void of ringing silence and blinding white.
Then, sensation rushed back in a painful wave. His ears screamed with a high-pitched tinnitus whine. His vision was a mess of swirling purple and green afterimages. He could taste blood—he'd bitten his tongue.
But he could think. He wasn't blind. He wasn't deaf. The comforter had worked. Mostly.
He shoved the smoking, shredded blanket aside. The flashbang had torn a blackened hole in the floorboards. His body ached everywhere.
Move. Now. They think you're down.
He forced himself to his hands and knees. The world swayed. He grabbed the rifle, using it as a crutch to stand. His legs felt like rubber. He stumbled to the bedroom door.
The third man was at the top of the stairs, peering cautiously toward the bedroom, his rifle raised. He looked confused. The flashbang should have ended it. Where was the crying? The screaming?
He didn't see Hunter step into the hallway.
Hunter didn't give him time to react. He charged, the roar of rage in his throat drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He covered the distance in two long, silent strides and smashed the rifle stock into the side of the man's head.
The man's eyes went wide with surprise, then blank. He stumbled sideways, his feet tangling on the top step. He let out a short, guttural yell as he pitched backward, arms windmilling. He tumbled down the wooden staircase with a series of awful, bone-breaking thuds and crashes before landing in a heap at the bottom. He didn't move.
Silence.
Then, a new sound. Distant, but growing. The beautiful, wailing song of sirens.
Police. Someone heard. Of course they heard. It had sounded like a warzone in here.
Hunter stood at the top of the stairs, his chest heaving. Smoke from the flashbang and gunpowder drifted in the air. Feathers from his mattress settled like snow. Three men were down in the bedroom. One at the bottom of the stairs. One by the window.
Five men. All neutralized.
The sirens grew louder, then abruptly cut off right outside. Red and blue lights strobed through the shattered front door, painting the wreckage of his living room in frantic, alternating colors.
This was the next part. The dangerous part. The police would see a bloodbath. They would see a man who had turned his home into a killing zone. They wouldn't see a soldier. They'd see a monster.
He had to de-escalate. Immediately.
He slowly walked down the stairs, each step deliberate. He stepped over the unmoving man at the bottom, checking for a pulse out of habit. Nothing. He walked to the center of his living room, standing amid the broken glass, overturned furniture, and spent shell casings. He carefully placed the empty rifle on the floor and kicked it away from himself.
He then got down on his knees, and slowly, visibly, lay flat on his stomach. He placed his hands behind his head, lacing his fingers together. He rested his cheek on the cool wood floor. It smelled of dust and blood.
He was a statue of surrender.
"POLICE! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"
He didn't move. He just breathed. In. Out. Calm. You are the victim. You are scared. You are lucky.
He heard the crunch of cautious footsteps on the porch littered with glass. Then, multiple flashlight beams pinned him, blinding him.
"ON THE GROUND! DON'T MOVE!"
"I am on the ground!" Hunter called out, making his voice sound shaky. "They're all down! I'm the homeowner!"
"SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!"
"My hands are behind my head! Please, I'm alone!"
He heard more movement, then heavy boots surrounded him. A young deputy knelt, his knee pressing nervously into Hunter's back as he pulled his wrists together and snapped on cold, metal handcuffs. "Easy, sir, just stay easy," the cop muttered, his own breath coming fast.
Hunter said nothing more. He just lay there, playing his part. The terrified civilian. Inside, his mind was racing over the map, the "M," the planned breach. This was a professional hit. Who had he angered? Was it from his old life? Or was it something new, something connected to Tessa's secrecy, her mother's troubles?
The sheriff, an older man with a weary face named Miller, walked in, his flashlight sweeping the scene. He froze. "Holy mother of God…" He looked at Hunter, cuffed on the floor. "You. Did you do all this, son?"
Before Hunter could give his rehearsed, trembling answer, a deputy called from the stairs. "Sheriff! We've got three more up here. Two unconscious, one… one's gone. And one outside the window with a gunshot wound. They're all armed. AR-15s, sidearms, the works."
Sheriff Miller looked back at Hunter with a new, uneasy respect. "Who the hell are you?"
But another deputy's voice, from near the body at the bottom of the stairs, cut through the tension. "Sheriff? You need to see this. Found something in his jacket pocket."
Hunter's breath hitched. The map.
A deputy has found something critical in a dead attacker's pocket.