Chris nodded, and was about to speak when a crash came from somewhere in the house. They pushed apart and spun towards the kitchen doorway. Though they lived in the city, they barely had the money to survive week to week, and their house was not in the safest neighborhood.
It was well past the eight o’clock curfew now. Whoever—or whatever—had made the noise was not likely to be friendly.
Sucking in a breath, Chris moved into the doorway and risked a glance across the lounge. The single incandescent bulb cast shadows across the room, leaving dark patches behind the couch and television. He stared hard into the darkness, searching for signs of movement, and then retreated to the kitchen.
Silently, his mother handed him a kitchen knife. He took it after only a second’s hesitation. She held a second blade in a practiced grip. Looking at his mother's face, Chris swallowed. Her eyes were hard, her brow creased in a scowl, but he did not miss the fear there. Together they faced the door—and waited.
The squeak of the loose floorboard in the hallway seemed as loud as a gunshot in the silent house. Chris glanced at his mother, and she nodded back. There was no doubt now. Someone was inside.
A crash came from the lounge, then the thud of heavy boots as the intruder gave up all pretense of stealth. Chris tensed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the knife handle. He spread his feet into a forward stance, readying himself.
The sound of breaking glass came from their right as the kitchen window exploded inwards, and a black-suited figure leapt into the room. The man bowled into his mother, sending her tumbling to the ground before she could swing the knife. Chris sprang to the side as another man charged from the lounge, then drew back and hurled his knife.
Without pausing to see whether the blade struck home, Chris twisted and leapt, driving his heel into the midriff of the intruder standing over his mother. But the man was ready for him, and with his greater bulk, he brushed off the blow. Stumbling sideways, Chris clenched his fists and charged again.
The man grinned, raising his hands to catch Chris. With his attention diverted, Chris’s mother rose behind him, knife still in hand, and drove the blade deep into their attacker’s hamstring.
Their black-garbed attacker barely had time to scream before Chris’s fist slammed into his windpipe. The intruder’s face paled and his hands went to his throat. He staggered backwards, strangled noises gurgling from his mouth, and toppled over the kitchen table.
Chris offered his mother a hand. Before she could take it, a creak came from the floorboards behind him. The man from the lounge loomed up, grabbing Chris by the shoulder. Still on the ground, his mother rolled away as Chris twisted around, fighting to break the man’s hold. Cursing, he aimed an elbow at the man’s gut, but his arm struck solid body armor and bounced off.
The body armor explained what had happened to the knife Chris had thrown, but before he could process what the information meant, another crash came from the window.
His mother surged to her feet as a third man leapt inside. Still holding the bloodied knife, she screamed and charged. Straining his arms, Chris bucked against his captor’s grip, but there was no breaking the man’s iron hold. Stomach clenched, he watched his mother attack the heavily-armed assailant.
The new intruder carried a steel baton in one hand, and as she swung her knife it flashed out and caught her wrist. His mother screamed, and the blade tumbled from her hand. She retreated across the room, cradling her arm. A fourth man appeared in the doorway to the lounge. Before Chris could shout a warning, he grabbed her from behind.
His mother shrieked and threw back her head, trying to catch the man in the chin, but her blows bounced off his body armor. Her eyes widened as his arm went around her neck, cutting off her breath. Heart hammering in his chest, Chris twisted and kicked at his opponent’s shins, desperate to aid his mother, but the man showed no sign of relenting.
“Mom!” he screamed as her eyes drooped closed.
“Doctor Fallow, situation under control. You’re up,” the man from the window spoke into his cuff. He approached his wounded comrade, whose face was turning purple. “Hold on, man. Medical’s on its way.”
“Who are you?” Chris gasped.
The man ignored him. Instead, he went to work on the fallen man, removing his belt and binding it around the man’s leg. The injured man groaned as the speaker worked, his eyes squeezed closed and his teeth clenched. A pang of guilt touched Chris, but he crushed it down.
“What the hell happened?” a woman exclaimed as she entered the kitchen.
The woman was dark-skinned, but the color was rapidly fleeing her face as she looked around the kitchen. She raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes lingering on the blood, then flicking between the men and their captives. Shock showed in their amber depths, but already it was fading as she reasserted control. Lowering her hand to her side, she pursed her red lips. Her gaze settled on Chris.
A chill went through him as he noticed the red-emblazoned bear on the front of her black jacket. The symbol marked her as a government employee. These were not random thugs in the night. They were the police, and they were here for Chris and his mother.
Nodding to herself, the woman reached into her jacket and drew something into the light. The breath caught in Chris’s throat as he glimpsed the contraption in her hand. For a second he thought it was a pistol, but as she drew closer he realized his mistake. It was some sort of hypodermic gun, some device he’d only thought existed in old movies. In real life though, it was far more terrifying than anything Hollywood had ever produced.
“Who are you?” Chris croaked as she paused in front
