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After a moment, I glance back at Marc and shake my head. I don’t see any other people moving around outside.
Five is more than Berdherst sent last time, though it doesn’t appear that he upgraded their quality along with their quantity.
I set my weapons aside and grab hold of the nearest man in the doorway, dragging him farther inside. Marc joins me to haul in his fallen partner.
One of these people is going to talk, even if it takes all night to get the answers we want.
I frisk my guy and find a wallet in his pocket. Pulling it out, I flip it open and stare in confusion at the badge inside.
What the—
The garage door bangs open, and heavy boots thunder down the hall.
Instinctively, I reach for my baton at the same time that Marc lunges for his shotgun.
“Freeze!” a voice shouts, “Clearhelm Police! Drop your weapons!”
Marc and I exchange a quick, wary glance.
Are they the real police, or is this some elaborate ruse? We’ve encountered our fair share of fake cops in our line of work. Hell,we’veused that ruse ourselves. They don’t wear any badging, and the front men never identified themselves.
“Drop your weapons, or we’ll shoot!” the man barks.
Reluctantly, we lower our weapons to the ground, the metal clattering against the hardwood floors. We share another look, this one laced with resignation. There’s no fighting our way out of this one, not without risking being shot.
“We’re the Cleaners,” I call out and raise my hands to show I’m unarmed. “We work for the JTFPI!”
Heavy footsteps stomp toward us. “On your knees!”
Already in a crouch, I let my knees hit the ground, and Marc straightens to kneel beside me. We raise our hands next to our heads, hands open to show we’re unarmed.
Other boot falls rush forward, their movements swift and efficient as they yank our hands down behind our backs and slap handcuffs on us. The cold metal bites into my wrists, tight enough that there will be no wiggling free.
With our hands restrained behind our backs, the officers forcibly push us to the ground, pressing our faces against the cold, wood floor.
I roll my eyes up toward the leader. “We work for the same team. You can check our credentials. There’s a copy in the top drawer of the sideboard.”
The lead officer pulls up his mask to reveal a stern-looking man with a no-nonsense demeanor.
He shines a flashlight into my eyes, blinding me. “We received a report that you’re holding a child hostage in this cabin. Care to explain yourselves?”
I flinch back from the bright light. “There are no children here.”
Marc nods, his face a mask of sincerity. “You’re welcome to search the cabin. It’s not that big.”
The officer narrows his eyes at us but nods to his subordinates, who head into the back. The sound of rooms being torn apart and things breaking follows, and I grit my teeth at the invasion. Objects can be replaced, so long as the kids escaped safely.
While they search, other officers come forward to crouch over their fallen partners.
“They’re alive,” one announces.
“We only use bean bags for home defense,” Marc says. “They didn’t identify themselves when they entered our home.”
The lead officer ignores the comment as he paces, waiting for the search team to complete their ransack of our home.
Tension hangs in the air as the minutes tick by slowly, and I track their progress through our home and down in the garage.
Finally, the officers return to the entryway, and the one at the front shakes his head at the lead officer. They hadn’t found anyone else in the cabin.
