Four cars pull onto the street, headlights off. All standard but for the tinted windows. They pull up onto the curb. Sixteen occupants exit. Geared up. Blacked out.
They stalk towards the house, weapons hot. Their boots fall quietly on the small front lawn, which leads up to the white-painted two-story. Thin strands of pale light slot through boarded up windows across the porch.
Thirteen stacks up beside the front door with the rest of the fireteam. Trapped behind a respirator, he drags in air through the billowing of his lungs, which feel like they’re made of cold rubber. He feels his heart drum heavily on the metal plate strapped to his chest. His goggles fog at the edges.
Inside the house he hears two men screaming. A woman too. A baby is crying somewhere. The TV is blaring. News channel. In the street the other houses are lit but he sees no motion from within.
Twelve peers down the length of the mirror, hooked under the plywood front door, at the LCD screen.
‘One male at twelve, behind the door,’ says Twelve’s voice in his ear through a field of static. ‘Female at two. Infant in cot hard right. Second male unknown. Doorframe is unarmed. Bolted lock.’
Twelve pulls up the mirror and folds it away. ‘Shotgun the lock, bang the room.’
Flashbang will deafen the infant for the rest of its life, thinks Thirteen. He pulls the pin on the grenade and holds it primed. Fourteen pulls to the other side of the door, breaching shotgun pressed to the lock.
‘Mark.’
Sweat drips down Thirteen’s nose.
‘Go.’
‘This is the police!’
Crack. Bang.
Paddy Dobson
8th December 2021