Chapter 8
Damian led the breach, stepping through the shattered front door with terrifying, fluid precision. The interior of the modest suburban home was bathed in darkness, save for the faint glow of a television left running in the living room. The cinematic light cast long, eerie shadows across overturned furniture and shattered picture frames.
There was no graphic injury or blood visible, but the signs of a violent, desperate struggle were everywhere. A dining chair was smashed into pieces. A child’s backpack lay abandoned near the staircase, its contents—crayons, notebooks, and a small toy car—spilled across the hardwood floor.
Damian stepped over the debris, his polished leather shoes completely silent. His broad shoulders remained tense, his weapon raised as he cleared the living room. "Clear," he whispered into his comms.
"Kitchen is clear," Vance reported from the back of the house. "But we found someone. In the pantry. She's alive."
Damian lowered his weapon slightly and moved swiftly toward the kitchen. Inside the open pantry door, a woman in her late forties sat bound to a heavy wooden chair with thick zip-ties. She was terrified, her fair skin pale, tears streaming down her face, but she was entirely unharmed. A piece of duct tape covered her mouth.
Damian approached her slowly, projecting a calm, commanding authority to prevent her from panicking further. He holstered his weapon and reached out, gently peeling the tape from her lips.
"Are you the boy's mother?" Damian asked, his deep voice smooth and measured.
The woman gasped for air, sobbing heavily. "I... I'm his foster mother! Please, you have to help him! They took Leo! They broke in and dragged him out of his bed!"
May you like
"Look at me," Damian ordered gently but firmly, holding her panicked gaze with his intense, piercing eyes. "I am going to get him back. How long ago did they leave?"
"Ten minutes!" she cried. "Maybe less! They threw him into a black van!"
