Story code: ST-000531
Part 2: The Empty Shell
Leo lunged. He didn’t give the men in the creeping sedan time to roll down a window or reach under their seats. He grabbed the thick fabric of Mateo’s oversized hoodie, hauling the boy backward across the threshold with a violent jerk. Mateo stumbled over the door frame, his sneakers kicking up loose shards of window glass as he fell into the foyer. Leo slammed the heavy oak door shut, throwing the deadbolt and sliding the brass chain into place. The metallic clack sounded entirely too frail against the low, rumbling thrum of the heavy engine idling right outside his home.
“Stay low,” Leo ordered, grabbing Mateo by the shoulder and shoving him toward the narrow hallway that branched off the living room.
The shattered front window offered absolutely zero protection. Anyone standing on the sidewalk had an unobstructed view of the front half of the house, right down to the glitter of the broken glass on the hardwood. Leo kept his back hunched, moving swiftly past the exposed opening. He guided Mateo into the darkened corridor, out of the direct sightline of the street.
Mateo hit the hallway wall and slid down to the floor. He was hyperventilating, his thin chest heaving beneath the gray sweatshirt. His wide eyes remained fixed on the front door, and he jammed his right hand deep into his pocket, fiercely guarding the piece of plastic he had just offered.
Outside, the matte-black sedan’s engine cut off.
The sudden silence was worse than the mechanical roar. It stretched tight across the muggy afternoon air, followed almost immediately by the heavy, metallic thud of a car door opening. Then came another. The distinct crunch of heavy boots stepping onto the gravel driveway echoed through the ruined window.
Leo flattened his back against the floral-print wallpaper of the hallway, listening intently to the approach. There were two sets of footsteps. One set moved deliberately toward the wooden steps of the front porch. The other crunched steadily along the side of the house, heading down the narrow alleyway that led to Leo’s back gate and the kitchen door. They were boxing him in.
“They saw me,” Mateo whispered, his voice cracking into a panicked, high-pitched wheeze. He wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling himself into a tight ball. “They know who I am. My brother told me not to come here. They’re going to kill my brother.”
“Keep your voice down,” Leo said, his tone low and uncompromising. He crouched next to the teenager, deliberately blocking the boy’s view of the front door to force eye contact. “They don’t know what you have. For all they know, you’re a neighborhood kid who sweeps my porch for ten bucks. Hand me the plastic, Mateo. Let me take the heat.”
“No!” Mateo shrank away, pressing his pocket against his thigh. The two fifty-dollar bills Leo had offered him lay crumpled on the hallway runner where they had fallen during the scramble. “You said you pay for things that matter! This isn’t enough anymore! If they see me leaving, they’ll come to the garage. We need bus tickets to get out of the state. We need a hotel.”
Leo’s jaw tightened. The cost of the story was spiraling wildly out of his control. He was no longer just paying off an informant for a quick scoop; he was now being asked to finance a complete escape for a teenager and an auto mechanic. The ethical line he had crossed by pushing the kid was snapping back to strangle him.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps hit the front porch. The old floorboards groaned under the weight. A tall shadow fell across the threshold, blocking out the sliver of afternoon sunlight that usually slipped under the front door.
“Hey, reporter,” a voice called out, projecting easily through the shattered living room window. It was a thick, gravelly drawl, entirely casual and dripping with arrogant confidence. “We know you got company in there. Real young company. Shame about your window, by the way. Neighborhood’s really going to hell lately.”
Leo didn’t answer. He stared intensely at Mateo, holding his palm flat between them. The boy was shivering violently, sweat and tears cutting clean tracks through the old grease on his cheeks.
“You have five seconds to hand it over,” Leo whispered, leaning in so close that Mateo could feel the heat of his breath. “If they breach that front door, I cannot stop them from getting to you. If you hold onto the evidence, they will tear you apart to take it. Give it to me. I become the target, and you become nothing but a bystander.”
Mateo squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching in a harsh sob. His trembling hand emerged from the pocket. He pressed the thick, dark piece of plastic into Leo’s palm.
Leo pulled his hand back into the shadows of the hallway and turned the object over. It was the crushed housing of a dashboard camera, exactly what Vance’s SUV would have been equipped with. But as Leo’s thumb brushed the jagged, broken edge of the plastic, his stomach dropped.
The seam was split wide open. The internal SD card slot was a hollow void.
Leo grabbed the collar of Mateo’s hoodie, pulling the boy slightly forward. “Where is the memory card?”
“My brother,” Mateo choked out, tears spilling freely now. “He hid it at the garage. He told me to bring the casing so you’d know he wasn’t lying. He won’t hand over the video drive until you meet him in person and bring the money.”
Leo stared at the useless piece of plastic. He had dragged a vulnerable kid into a gang crossfire for a decoy.
Before Leo could formulate a plan to get them out, the back door in the kitchen rattled violently. A heavy shoulder slammed against the exterior wood, the frame splintering inward with a sharp, echoing crack.
“Time’s up, scribe,” the voice from the porch yelled, the casual tone replaced by hard, violent intent. “We’re coming in.”