I pulled up and saw the back door blown open. Splintered wood. Blood on the threshold.
Gun drawn. Vest tight. Every nerve in my body firing on high alert.
I stepped into the house, and the first sound I heard was Chase—groaning—somewhere upstairs.
Then a sob.
I sprinted. Two steps at a time. Turned the corner and hit the nursery.
And I saw it all.
The blood. The broken door. Elena on the floor, unconscious. Chase slumped beside her, trying to press his hand against her head and his shoulder at the same time.
No baby.
“Andy—” he choked, pale and shaking, “he took her.He has Luci.”
I didn’t freeze. Couldn’t.
“Officer on scene, I need EMSnow—gunshot wound, unconscious female, infant abduction. Suspect fled on foot or vehicle—unknown direction. White male, early thirties, likely under the influence,armed. Repeat—armed. Alert county units. Lock this shit down.”
I was already at Chase’s side, dropping to one knee, trying to apply pressure where his hand was slipping. Blood soakedthrough his shirt like someone had turned on a faucet. His skin was waxy. Clammy. Eyes glassy.
But he wasn’t out of it. Not even close.
“Elena—she’s breathing?” he asked, voice raw.
“Yeah. Yeah, she’s alive,” I said, checking for a pulse. “You both are, butbarely, so sit your ass still until EMS gets here.”
He didn’t even nod.
Just looked at the door.
Like if he stared hard enough, Luci would be back in his arms.
“Dispatch, put out an APB on Peter Stone,” I said into my radio. “Last seen fleeing the Ventura residence with infant in arms. Repeat: infant abduction in progress. Establish roadblocks. I need traffic cams pulled, nearby security feeds pinged, all Sable Point exits monitored. Full response.”
I heard more units coming—sirens screaming up the road. Backup. Medics. Too late.
Chase shifted. Tried to sit up.
“No.Nope. Stay down, Chase.”
“I’m fine.” He grimaced, pushing himself upright with one hand, the other still slick with his own blood. “I can’t—Ican’tlet him take her.”
“You’ve lost alotof blood, man. You are not doing this. You are not Rambo. You are not John Wick. You’re a dad with a bullet hole and a bleeding-out shoulder.”
He was already crawling.
“Chase—I’m ordering you to stay the fuck down. Wait for medics.”
He met my eyes—clearer than they had any right to be. “She’s my daughter.”
And then he was gone.
He stumbled down the hall, tripping on the stairs, catching himself on the wall, but refusing to stop.
He made it to the driveway, dragged open the door of his truck with a guttural sound of pain, and peeled out so fast the tires screamed against pavement.
