POV: Hunter
Hunter kept his face pressed to the cool wood. He heard the rustle of thick paper, the sound crisp in the tense quiet.
"What is it?" Sheriff Miller's voice was closer now.
"It's a map, sir. Hand-drawn. Of this house."
The words landed in the room like a depth charge. The ambient noise the crackling police radios, the shuffling of boots seemed to fade away. Hunter's entire world focused on the sound of that paper being unfolded.
They have a map. They had a guide.
"Let me see that," Miller said. There was a long, terrible pause. Hunter could picture it: the sheriff holding the paper under his flashlight, his eyes tracing the lines of Hunter's own home. "Well, I'll be damned," Miller finally breathed, his voice grim. "It's detailed. Shows all the rooms… marks the safe in the office… even notes the little security camera in the hallway corner." His tone turned hard and sharp. "Somebody scoped this place out real good. This was a planned hit."
The sheriff's boots came closer. They stopped right next to Hunter's head. Miller crouched down, the paper crinkling in his hand. He held it in front of Hunter's face.
The map.
It was simple, drawn on plain white paper with a black felt-tip pen. But its simplicity was what made it so chilling. It was accurate. It showed the layout perfectly the living room, the kitchen, the office, the stairs. An 'X' marked the wall safe behind his framed university degree. A small circle marked the camera in the hall corner. It was a professional target package.
Then his eyes, against his will, darted to the bottom corner. Next to the master bedroom, someone had written in neat, looping cursive:
Guard Dog's Bedroom.
The air vanished from Hunter's lungs. The world tilted on its axis.
He knew that handwriting. He'd seen it on a thousand grocery lists, on birthday cards tucked into his duffel bag before deployment, on love notes left on the fridge. It was Tessa's handwriting. Unmistakable.
His wife.
The betrayal wasn't an abstract idea anymore. It was there, in ink, on paper, held by a sheriff. His wife had given these men a nickname for him. Guard Dog. And she had told them exactly where his kennel was.
A white-hot fury and a crushing grief warred inside him, threatening to shatter the calm facade he was clinging to. He wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit.
Why, Tessa? WHY?
Sheriff Miller was watching him like a hawk. "This look familiar?" he asked, his voice low and probing. "Someone gave these boys a roadmap to you. You know who that might be?"
Hunter's training slammed back into place. Do not react. Do not confirm. You are in hostile territory. Everyone is a potential enemy. The police were not the enemy, but they were a force that could be used against him. He couldn't trust them with this truth. Not yet.
He forced his eyes to go wide, to show shock, but not recognition. He let his jaw tremble. "It's… it's my house," he whispered, making his voice sound thin and dazed. "Why… why would someone have a map of my house?" He injected a layer of confused terror into the question. Play the victim. Be the lucky, clueless homeowner.
Miller studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Hunter held the gaze, letting the sheriff see the shock, the fear, but not the devastating knowledge behind it.
Finally, Miller stood up, not looking convinced, but without proof. "Cut him loose, Tim," he said to the deputy. "He's not our shooter. He's the one who got shot at."
The cuffs came off. Hunter slowly sat up, rubbing his wrists, keeping his movements sluggish and shell-shocked. He looked around at the destruction the shattered door, the bullet holes, the bodies being covered with sheets as if seeing a nightmare for the first time.
"You're a very lucky man," Miller said, carefully tucking the map into a clear plastic evidence bag. "A very skilled, lucky man. You want to tell me what you really do for a living? That wasn't just luck."
"I did private security work. Overseas. For a contractor," Hunter mumbled, looking at the floor. It was the cover story every Delta operative had ready. Close enough to the truth to be believable, vague enough to hide everything. "I guess… some instincts don't go away."
Just then, a new voice came from the shattered doorway, calm and clear. "Sheriff Miller?"
Everyone turned. A woman stood on the porch, backlit by the swirling police lights. She was in dark pajama pants and a zip-up hoodie, her arms crossed against the night chill. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes sharp, intelligent, missing nothing scanned the horrific scene in one swift, analytical sweep.
"Riley? That you?" Sheriff Miller said, sounding surprised.
"Yeah. I live next door. I heard the… well, the symphony. Called it in. Is everyone okay?" Her gaze didn't linger on the bodies. It landed on Hunter, sitting on the floor. And it stayed there. It was an assessing look, the kind a mechanic gives a complex engine.
"We're sorting it out, Riley. This is Mr…"
"Hunter," Hunter supplied quietly, dropping his gaze, playing meek.
"Mr. Hunter here had some uninvited guests."
Riley Kane stepped inside, careful to avoid the glass. Her attention wasn't on the sheriff or the dead men. It was fixed on the evidence bag in Miller's hand, the one holding the damning map. Then, her eyes flicked back to Hunter's face.
Her expression didn't change. But Hunter saw a flicker of understanding in her eyes. She had been watching from the shadows. She had seen him freeze when he looked at that map. She had seen the look on his face not just fear, but heartbreak.
She knows, he thought with a fresh surge of panic. She knows I recognized the handwriting.
The new neighbor, Riley, has just seen Hunter's shocked reaction to the map and seems to understand its significance.