Page 135 of Lost Lyrebird

A rock drops into the pit of my stomach as I take it all in.

I rub my face, try to shake the sleep and tension out of it, but my anger is building fast.There’s nothing I can do about this right now, but goddamn it, this is the last thing I needed.

After taking off my chin strap, I rip off my helmet and fight not to throw the damn thing.This is going to cost me.Guess getting ahead of the bills and keeping extra money in savings wasn’t in the cards for me.Not when life keeps throwing buckets of shit at me every time I get close to even.

I’m dead on my feet, and I need to get back to my dad.I can’t leave the driveway like this, and obviously, I can’t trust strangers to do shit for me.So, with curses spilling from my lips, I start grabbing piece after piece of trash.I flip the garbage can back to its feet, toss what I’ve collected inside.It’s enough for now, but it’s far from done.

As I turn to head back, I freeze.My peripheral catches movement, and I slowly spin around to find a face staring at me from behind the curtains of the front bay window.

What the actual fuck?

The hairs on my neck prickle as I stride forward.I don’t bother with the gate; I just plant my hands on the top of the chain-link and vault over it.

The thought of some stranger squatting here makes my vision go red.Did they go through my dad’s things?Steal shit?

I hear shouting coming from inside.I can’t make out the words, but it sounds like someone’s yelling in Spanish.My heart races as I kick at the front door.It doesn’t budge.Feels like something more than just a deadbolt is keeping it shut.

Oh, some fucker is gonna die today.

I kick and kick until the frame splinters.Using my shoulder, I wedge it the rest of the way open, forcing my way through until it finally gives.When it does, I stumble inside and grab the couch to steady myself.The smell hits me like a fucking wall—overpowering, burning my nostrils in seconds.

Training kicks in, and I yank my shirt up to cover the lower half of my face, but it’s useless.The air stinks like rotten eggs mixed with paint thinner, the stench so sharp it makes my eyes water.My throat tightens, and I gag.

I don’t have a second to get my bearings before the sound of a gunshot splits the air.I drop to the floor, fast, like a stone falling through water, my heart racing in an instant.

Motherfucker.

More shots ring out, clunking and pinging against the walls and furniture—way too fucking close.Thankfully, the couch gives me some cover, and I’m close enough to grab the coffee table.Using every bit of my strength, I tip it over and shove it in front of me, adding another layer of protection from the person firing from the direction of the kitchen.

I curse myself for leaving my sidearm locked in the small safe inside my bag, which is still on my bike.I let personal attachment and emotion override my training.That’s the part that surprises the hell out of me.I should’ve assessed the situation, not rushed in blind, but it’s too late to dwell on it now.

A crash echoes, then the unmistakable sound of a fuck ton of glass shattering.

Which could be a window or the back sliding door.

I catch a few Spanish words shouted in a panicked tone—“Vámonos” and “Mijo”—the rest is lost on me.But it’s clear whoever’s in my house speaks it fluently, and they’re fleeing into the backyard.

Tempting fate, I peek around the table.When I don’t see anyone, I crawl forward.The air is thick, heavy with poison, making it hard to breathe, but I fight through it.I pull myself into a crouch, double-checking the area to be sure they’re gone, before slowly rising to my feet.

I move carefully, making sure there’s cover in case someone’s waiting for me.

At the threshold of the kitchen, the destruction hits me like a punch to the gut.For a moment, I freeze, stunned.Plastic jugs are scattered across the floor, along with tubes, plastic barrels, beakers, measuring cups, and some large silver cooking pots—some standing, others tipped over in chaos.Smoke rises from the far corner, a small fire starting to take hold.

The setup is crude but distinguishable.A goddamn meth lab.

So… motherfucking dead.

I yank open a drawer and grab the largest knife I can find.It’s not much, but I’m damn good with blades.Speed has always been my advantage.I was good at baseball for the same reason, and it’s saved my ass more times than I can count during hand-to-hand training.With a knife, I can do some serious damage.

My heart’s hammering, adrenaline coursing through me.I force out steady breaths, then turn and head toward the dining room.

I almost throw the knife when I see them.Thank God I don’t.I freeze just in time—a kid, no older than fourteen or fifteen, stuck at the shattered glass door.He’s tugging at a bag that’s caught on the glass at the bottom, grunting in frustration as it refuses to budge.

At the sight of me, he crouches, then yells something behind him.My grip tightens on the knife as I move closer.His eyes widen with fear, and he slowly rises, letting go of the bag.His hands shake visibly.

He looks like a scared fucking deer caught in headlights.His dark brown eyes are locked on the knife in my hand, and I know in that moment: he’s not the threat.

A shadow moves behind him, and instinct kicks in.I duck back behind the wall just as another shot rings out.The bullet slams into the wall near my head, plaster exploding around me.