Broken Reign: Enemies-To-Lovers Romance

Al’s Diner.

Massacre.

“I need everyone to fall out. Matthews, Sterling, Bruno, and Ludlow, I need you at Al’s—”

I’m taking off.

The local diner.

The local diner where people eat. Where families go to celebrate their most precious loved ones. Their friends, their partners . . . their children.

Bile coats my throat. It’s not even half a mile away from the precinct.

It’s not far, I remind myself. If I leave now, maybe I can stop it. Maybe we aren’t too late.

My breath comes out in ragged bursts as I start to sprint. Voices yell at me to stop. To wait. That I need backup.

But before they can stop me, I’m already pushing open the door and am out of the building. From behind me, I hear Tom screaming that he’s coming, then the rest of the men follow suit.

The chill hits my face like a vicious slap.

I never grabbed my coat.

But knowing where I’m going and what I will most likely see, I won’t turn back. I can’t. I don’t have time.

Blood courses through my veins as I push harder.

My heart beats frantically.

Almost there.

Only a few blocks.

By the time I’m near the building, my chest rises and falls in erratic jerks. My lungs burn as I inhale deeply to calm myself.

Standing on the corner of the street, only a few feet from the entrance to the building, I whip my head around in both directions to look at the other officers who have followed me.

Most are leaning forward, their chests heaving as they try to catch their breaths. Others are on their walkie-talkies, probably trying to get orders from the chief.

I ignore them, assessing the situation. Do I wait for more men? For SWAT from the town over? Or do I go in without eyes in the building?

It’s quiet. Eerily so. Like the whole town knows what’s going on and decided to stay clear of the devastation.

Normally, you would expect pedestrians to be walking in a town like this. Cars driving by, friends giggling, a man and a woman strolling hand in hand.

But now, there’s nothing.

The stillness around me makes my footsteps falter. Despite my reservations, I force myself to move. I press on, unsure of what I’m going to find.

Not sure what sort of horrors hide inside.

I feel like I’m in slow motion. Like I’m stuck in a slasher flick, where the world quiets before shit goes down.

The thing that scares me the most is that there is no gunfire. Not one sound comes from the building.

Tentatively, I open the door, careful when I step inside. My gun is raised, cocked and ready. Once I cross the threshold, a familiar smell of lingering gunpowder hits me.

Then the heat touches my face, infiltrating my nostrils. The shots were just fired, probably with a silencer. It only just ended, which means the threat is still out there. I keep my wits about me as I move farther into the building.

At first, it seems as if there’s nothing out of place.

Except for the most important thing.

Signs of life.

Instead, only the soft hum of the jukebox can be heard. The song feels out of place in the backdrop of bright walls and party streamers. A slow, emotional melody. Goose bumps rise on my arms.

Even the lyrics feel like a warning . . .

A warning of something sinister waiting around the bend.

Normally, Al’s is loud and boisterous, but now the space is empty. I clock the details. The stained wallpaper. The popped balloons. The copper scent.

As I turn the corner, the illusion lifts.

It’s a massacre.

Bullet casings litter the floor like thrown confetti.

I follow them and peek into the first booth.

A bloody handprint is smeared across the bench. I look down to find wide, vacant eyes staring right at me. A bullet lodged between them.

My jaw clenches at the sight, and the muscles in my back tighten.

Gun leveled before me, my trigger finger ready, I walk to the next booth.

A streak of red coats the table. It trails along the wall, bloody handprints on the window.

Someone was trying to escape.

I look for the body . . .

That’s when I see her. Tucked under the bench as if she could hide.

But death found her anyway.

I push down the bile in my throat and turn to look at the rest of the dining room.

Bodies are strewn haphazardly across the floor. There is blood. So much blood. The crimson trails across the white linoleum floors like bright-red rivulets of paint running down a pristine canvas. It’ll take weeks to process this crime scene. To figure out who each splatter of blood belongs to.

Pressing my lips together, I breathe through my mouth. This is not the time to fall apart.

I push myself to take a step closer, careful not to disrupt the crime scene.

There’s another body here. He’s pale, wide-eyed, the horror of today permanently etched inside them. I want to run my hands down his eyelids and close them. To let him rest in peace.