Once more it felt as if the world was holding its breath. That was what it appeared to be in Cass’s eyes. The door separating the office from the hallway and the living room was cast wide open. Even as she violently shivered, fighting the rising bile in her throat amid attempts to keep her eyes off the discarded rag and bucket on the floor, the situation looked strange. It had all started when the agents answered the door to let a strict-looking woman inside. Whatever she’d said had set Mr. Moon and Dag on high alert.

Both men had taken up watchful positions around the house. Mr. Moon crouched beside her dad’s recliner, gun at the ready, while Dag stood in the office doorway holding a shotgun in one hand while the other clutched a pistol. The woman’s voice was coming from the kitchen, along with occasional bursts of radio static. Cass strained her ears to listen. It almost sounded like… police communications. The woman was coordinating with the police for backup.

Something had gone wrong. Cass knew it for sure. But what? Was it those crazies from the police station? Whatever it was, they’d stopped interrogating… no. That was the wrong word. Torturing. They’d stopped torturing her. The thin man seemed desperate to get the location of the alien out of her mere moments before, but they’d switched gears just like that.

Scratch that. Something hadn’t just gone wrong. Something had gone horribly wrong.

Mr. Moon’s head was constantly moving to look at the front and back doors. Dag was equally as watchful. Careful tension appeared to fill both of their bodies like springs being held back to the utmost in preparation for one crucial moment. The men’s faces were grim. She could almost smell the blood, at this point still imaginary, gathering around the bodies of the murderers.

A second later, Cass’s questions were answered by the sound of shattering glass.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Mark slowed to a halt as soon as he reached the back door. For the briefest of moments, he’d entertained the thought of bursting right through the door for a sort of shock and awe type of approach. But then, right as he approached ramming speed, something stopped him. It was Cass. Not in the flesh or anything, but her voice. Specifically, her voice in his head. A memory of her voice from the good old days. Back when they were in high school together. Back when they were dating. Back when he was happy.

Cass smiled at him. It was right after a game. Football, Carlston High School versus one of their rivals in Manhattan. They’d won. Mark played well but… well, he was a bit of a blockhead. Mark knew that, everyone knew that. He made a few mistakes in the heat of the moment, during the game.

‘Think, Mark. Think. It’s a big world. I can’t be around you 24/7. Heck, I can’t be on the field next to you. I’ve gotta stay in the stands. Think before you act. You’re strong. Fast. If you would use your brain, nothing can stop you.’

That’s what Cass had said, smiling at Mark and giving him a playful punch in the shoulder.

A sharp stabbing pain lanced through Mark’s heart. The good old days. There were so many smart people in the world. Scientists and inventors and whatnot. Why hadn’t any of them made some sort of device that could tell a guy when the good old days were there before they slipped away? Those were the happiest days of his life. He should have savored them more.

Mark viciously shook his head. Memory lane could wait until this was over, he was alone in his parents’ house again, and there was some booze to help him forget about the present and future. He leaned down, grabbed the doormat with one hand, and casually tossed it aside to reveal a small key nestled underneath. It fit the lock in the door perfectly, and it slid open with a soft 'snick'. Mark peered through the gap in the door, reflexively holding his breath to keep as quiet as possible. He could see the big guy right off the bat. His head was turned toward Mark, but there was a shotgun held at the ready in his hands.

But before Mark’s brain (tiny as it was) could start working on a new plan, the sound of glass shattering echoed like an explosion throughout the house.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

One moment, Mr. Moon’s eyes were flitting across what he could see in the living room, the hallway, the office, and the kitchen. It was quiet. If Ms. Miller hadn’t arrived, the night would have been an ordinary one. It was too quiet. Did the attacker truly lose the trail back at the other house?

As it turned out, Mr. Moon’s question was answered as soon as it popped into his head.

Steve’s corpse flew through the closed living room window, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. Mr. Moon yelled for Cathy to get down, the rare use of her first name sending the woman instantly diving for the floor, and then the room erupted into a flurry of action as a screaming bald man covered in blood launched himself through the broken window.

An axe in one hand and a shotgun in another, the madman moved at the same time Mr. Moon and Dag did. The madman’s shotgun roared out, catching Dag clean in the stomach and sending the man reeling to the floor from the force of the shot. Mr. Moon, still taking cover behind the recliner, emptied five rounds from his Sig Sauer into the man’s chest. The madman stumbled heavily backward, but otherwise, he did not slow or show visible signs of pain.

“BODY ARMOR!” Mr. Moon shouted a warning to the other agents in the room. His arms rose to switch aim from the larger target of the chest to the smaller target of the head, but the man was on him before he could let loose another barrage. The recliner was tossed aside like it was made of paper. The man’s axe sliced through the air, but Mr. Moon rolled aside just in time so that it only nicked his suit jacket. For some reason, the shotgun had been tossed aside after its first shot. Did it only hold one shell at a time?

Now that the madman was closer, Mr. Moon was able to make out more details. Several wounds littered his body, but the man moved with speed defying any sort of weakness. Either he was inhumanly tough or was on serious amounts of drugs. Both?

The madman wore a ragged sleeveless white undershirt, and underneath that poked out the telltale black cloth of Kevlar body armor. From what he could tell, the body armor itself was tattered as well, as if someone had sliced through parts of it with a sharp object. Perhaps an axe.

It would weaken the material, but body armor was still body armor. It would still prove quite effective against his Sig Sauer. Still, the slices were important knowledge. It showed the material wasn’t rated as a stab vest. Useful to know if his weapon was lost and he had to resort to the knife kept in his belt.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Before the axe could tear through the air once more, the massive bulk of Dag, both his weapons abandoned, crashed into the madman’s back while Mr. Moon scrambled away to create some space. For once, Dag Sterner was matched in size and strength by an opponent. His partner’s arms wrapped around the madman’s neck to establish a chokehold, but the man simply let out a crazed laugh, almost as if he was reveling in the combat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Arms as thick as tree trunks wrapped around his neck, but Jack felt only joy. This was it. Tracking the woman from that house was the best decision he’d ever made. His chest stung from where the thin man shot him. The bullets were strong, filled with purpose and the desire to kill. If not for the Kevlar looted from his slain opponent earlier, perhaps his blitzkrieg would have turned out differently. But here he was.

Jack truly was a champion blessed by the gods themselves.

The thin man was scrabbling backward. Creating distance while his friend tried to restrain Jack. That same friend’s weapons were discarded. Maybe from Jack’s shot loosening his grip. Maybe because the thin man would have been in the line of fire.

Smart. Counterpoint: Jack tensed his neck muscles to invalidate the chokehold, making it unable to fully cut off his precious air supply. Next were his back and waist muscles. They too tensed as Jack pushed himself forward, hauling the big man over his back to slam into the floor with enough brutality to crack whatever was beneath the carpet.

“AHAHAHA! DEATH IS HERE!” Jack leaned back up and screamed the words out, his very being drenched in pure ecstasy. His wounds, particularly the ones received from his most recent battle, stung in protest from his every move. But at this moment, Jack was euphoric. Adrenaline, both natural and drug-induced, raced through his veins. White powder speckled his nose, and his brain thundered at Mach 10 from the methamphetamine in his system.

Jack was invincible. Immortal. Unstoppable. He was a god. A blood god of flesh and bone.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The screaming, bloodied madman shrugged off three more shots from Mr. Moon’s handgun like they were nothing but an irritation. One to the side of the neck, one to the right shoulder, and one scraping the throat. That was the problem with body armor and also the very reason why standard firearms training emphasized a focus on chest shots. Successfully hitting the much smaller target of the head in the heat of a high-stress situation like a firefight was an extraordinarily difficult feat, even for a marksman of Mr. Moon’s level. But, with body armor in play, the ammunition in Mr. Moon’s Sig Sauer couldn’t fully penetrate past that protection. It was a lose-lose situation unless some amount of luck came into play. Gamble for the headshot or waste bullets on the Kevlar.

The madman continued to move quickly, bloodied but very much alive. Mr. Moon’s gun was noticeably light in his hand now, a telltale sign that the magazine was empty, or nearly so. One more shot, a missed one this time, and it truly was empty. Dag was moving as well, but sluggishly after being slammed headfirst into the ground. His partner’s eyes were unfocused. The fact Dag still moved at all was a testament to his partner’s strength.

The roaring sound of gunshots echoed out from the kitchen as Mr. Moon was forced backward to avoid the slicing edges of the axe, the steel edge whistling by with millimeters to spare. However, what followed the blade was an explosion of pain. Mr. Moon’s vision went black and filled with stars as he vaguely felt himself being launched backward to collide with the wall. His lungs heaved, desperate to regather the air knocked out of them. He’d been punched. Punched hard enough to be thrown back several feet and, by the feel of it, crack several ribs. It was like the madman was wielding a sledgehammer instead of bare fists. Moreover, Mr. Moon’s hands were now empty. The Sig Sauer had been lost, flung from his grip when he was struck.

Mr. Moon surged to his feet, using the adrenaline rushing through his body to power through the weakness in his legs. Dag was back up too, his empty hands curled into boulder-like fists as he dueled with the madman, both men trading concrete-shattering blows heedless of injury or pain. At some point after punching Mr. Moon, the madman lost his axe. A second glance revealed its blade buried in the floor.

Mr. Moon’s palm rested on the butt of his knife, but then his eyes turned to the kitchen. Ms. Miller was crouched behind the table, her revolver pointing at the grappling duo as she tried to line up a shot.

His weapon was missing, but Ms. Miller’s remained. If his Sig had little effect… Mr. Moon sprinted into the kitchen. Ms. Miller tossed over her revolver without a word, instantly understanding his goal. She knew the play. Mr. Moon was a field agent and a well-known marksman in the department. She was a communications specialist, more used to sitting behind a desk than being in the middle of a life-and-death struggle.

Mr. Moon spared a glance down at it, taking a second to observe the weapon. It fit in his palm well enough. From what he could see, three of the original six shots were already spent. Nothing appeared wrong with the sights. Iron sights, as basic as they came.

Mr. Moon’s head snapped back up to focus on the brawl in the living room. He could make that work. Dag was sent stumbling back after a mighty punch to his chest. The madman stooped down to scoop his axe off the floor, and Mr. Moon took that chance to strike. One round screamed out of the barrel of the Smith and Wesson revolver, catching the madman neatly in his torso. The madman stumbled to the side several steps, half-turning to face Mr. Moon with a bloodied, yet excited grin.

Mr. Moon’s finger squeezed the trigger again. He did not aim for the head, nor did he need to. His Sig Sauer did not possess the power to penetrate Kevlar. Nor, in all honesty, did the Smith and Wesson revolver in his hands.

However, the .44 Magnum rounds chambered in the revolver did not need to penetrate to have a worthwhile effect. Each one of the high-powered rounds that struck true would have felt like a deranged horse kicking the madman square in the chest with all its strength. They would crack bones. They would drive the breath from his body. They would rupture organs. No man, no matter how crazed or drug-addled, could fully shake that off. That was the key difference between Mr. Moon’s Sig Sauer and Ms. Miller’s Smith and Wesson Model 29.

The second shot sent the madman reeling backward – still very much alive, but unbalanced and gasping in pain. Dag capitalized on that, driving his shoulder into the madman’s body in a football-esque tackle that drove the madman into the wall with enough force to crack it. Two bone-crunching punches followed as Dag’s fists slammed into the madman’s body over and over, his opponent reciprocating each one with a blow of his own.

By now, Dag was roaring as fiercely as the madman was, though without the cackling laughter the mysterious attacker possessed. The madman’s head rushed forward to crack against Dag’s skull, sending the agent stumbling backward. Mr. Moon lined up his last shot. His eye peered down the iron sights. Nice and steady. Breath in. Hold the breath.

A marksman of lesser experience would have been tempted to switch targets to the head now that Dag was out of the way and the madman was unsteady. The head was a sure kill, something that a torso wrapped in body armor was not.

Mr. Moon was no such amateur. The sights lined up with the madman’s chest, the largest target on his body, and Mr. Moon’s index finger provided the few pounds of force needed to discharge the weapon. The madman was driven stumbling back into the wall. A half-second later Mr. Moon's view was once more obscured by the bulk of Dag, the man having drawn his knife and moved in to slash away at the madman’s stomach. The madman stopped the blade with his palm, letting the blade bite through flesh to be halted by tendons, but his smile was laced with fresh blood.

The madman was enjoying this. Every punch and every wound. Both ones received and given.

Dag abandoned the knife, clearly judging that the precious seconds it would take to free the blade would be better used to grab the madman’s head, slamming it against the wall not once, nor twice, but three times in succession to crack the wood itself. The madman grabbed Dag’s waist with both hands, heedless of the knife still stuck in one of them. He first pushed Dag away, letting loose a barrage of bone-crunching punches.

And then, with a wink, a grin, and an unspoken promise to see them again, the bald madman used the space created to rush over to the broken window and dive back out into the night, disappearing as quickly as he’d arrived.