Detective Foster was in his office writing a report when he heard a loud sound. He recognized the sound as a flashbang and immediately started making his way toward it. The hallway leading to the back door was deserted. Prisoners were in the holding cells shouting, even louder than normal. At the end of the hallway, Detective Foster heard muffled cries from the other side of the door. He pulled out his service weapon and crouched, then flung the door open.

He took in the bloody scene before him. At least four people were down, and a lone man in a ragged coat hovered over a kid in a suit. The man’s back obscured part of the view, but Detective Foster noticed the gleam of a large knife pressed against the kid’s throat. Detective Foster’s eyes widened when he recognized Nigel.

“Stop!”

The figure proceeded to cut. Detective Foster shot the figure several times in the back. The figure slumped over, then began to move. A vest! The figure turned, and Foster was met with the piercing intensity of the figure’s eyes. His face was concealed with a mask that appeared to be a burlap sack with eye holes cut out. A second later, Detective Foster was hit in the chest with a small throwing knife.

“Your weapons cannot harm me. Cower before me, Mortal,” the figure growled. Foster turned onto his back. Blood gushed from his wound and mouth. He couldn’t breathe. He struggled to stay awake. Three uniformed officers appeared and gave chase; another stayed with the carnage and called for backup.

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The figure had too much of a lead on the pursuing officers. He rounded the corner of the only possible exit. The coat and mask were left behind. The officers split up, determined to find the perpetrator that attacked their own. Officer Anderson’s endurance began to flag. He stopped to have a look around.

“Any sign?” the other pursuing officer said.

“None!”

Police blocked off streets within two blocks around the precinct. Ambulances were the only vehicles allowed through. Officers checked the street, each car and every building, inside and out. When pedestrians were interviewed, no suspects were discovered, which only heightened the tension of the Milford police.

Officer Anderson decided to walk Main Street one last time before giving up. It was subtle at first—a tree about fifty feet away shook unnaturally. It was just outside the perimeter. Officer Anderson squelched his radio, then approached from the street, which provided some cover from parked cars. Officer Anderson inspected the suspect tree and saw a man dressed all in black clinging to the trunk of the tree.

“Come down from there!”

Officer Anderson dodged a throwing knife and fired at one of the perpetrator’s legs. The perpetrator moved, but not before getting grazed by the bullet. Hunter groaned in agony but didn’t leave the tree. Officer Anderson attempted to call for backup. A lasso of nylon rope was thrown over his neck and tightened as the perpetrator pulled upward. Officer Anderson attempted to aim the weapon again, but he couldn’t breathe. Officer Anderson grabbed the rope with both hands, dropping the pistol. The perpetrator looked like a kid, eighteen or nineteen at most. That was the last thing Officer Anderson remembered before he passed out.

Hunter vacated the area before reinforcements arrived.