It was June 4 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The sky was overcast, and the air still felt more like spring than summer—cool, damp, and just a little sharp around the edges. James Barrett stood at the gravestone with his hands in his jacket pockets.
Ann Barrett
Loved by all.
1970–2015
She died a few months after his retirement from the police force. He had stayed on patrol his whole career, never cared for politics or chasing rank. He liked keeping his hands and feet moving, not sitting behind a desk.
He thought back on all the shit she put up with to get them to that point. Retirement was supposed to be their reward—the trips, the long mornings, maybe grandkids running around the backyard. Stage 4 brain cancer took her three months after he hung up the badge.
The grass was soft underfoot, and a light breeze came and went without much purpose. A few droplets started to fall—light, sparse, barely enough to bother with, but enough to get under his collar and collect along the shoulders of his jacket.
Once a year, every year, he cleaned her stone and set fresh flowers at the base. Ten years now. Ten years without his Ann.
He'd tried dating. Never stuck. Mostly one-night fuck 'em and leave 'em situations. Getting laid was never the problem. It just didn't mean much. Nothing ever did. Not without her.
The drizzle picked up, light specks dotting the stone as he looked down. He ran a hand over his jaw, rough from a shave he didn't bother to clean up this morning. Strong jaw, brown hair that was more gray now than not, soft brown eyes that held too much and said too little. He kept himself in decent shape—didn't drink too much, kept sugar to a minimum. Still ran, still lifted, still trained. Martial arts had stuck with him after the Marines.
His jacket clung slightly at the shoulders, the damp settling in. He shifted his weight. He wasn't movie-star material, but if you squinted and had a thing for grown men with some wear on the edges, he could've passed for sexiest man alive in the average American category.
They had three kids. After Ann died, that's where all his effort went. It gave him something to hold onto. Something to shape his days around.
John, his oldest, had retired from the Air Force after twenty years. Lived mostly out in the country now, spent his time hunting and fishing. Every year without fail, James and John took a week for fishing on the ocean off the coast of Florida and another for hunting in Canada in the fall, with a little fishing mixed in. It was their rhythm. No drama, no fanfare—just father and son, quiet and reliable.
John had inherited his looks—tall, broad, square-jawed. People said so all the time. He had charm, too. Used it. Bit of a womanizer, always was. He never settled down, didn't want marriage or kids. Said it wasn't for him. Said the freedom mattered more. James didn't argue it. He'd earned the right to live however he damn well pleased.
Julie, his daughter, looked like Ann. Blue eyes, red hair, and that same wonderful smile. Same way of speaking with warmth even when she was being firm. She had, of course, married a police detective—a good guy, steady—and stayed home with the kids as a full-time mom. Four of them now.
James spent Sundays at their place. Family dinners with the grandkids, Julie, and his son-in-law. A lot of his free time went into helping out—watching the kids so they could get a night out, driving them to games or practice, filling in the little gaps no one else saw. He made it to every game he could, every school function. He believed it was a grandparent's responsibility to put in the effort. Parents were busy. Jobs, bills, exhaustion—it stacked up.
And more than anything, he wanted to give what he and Ann never had. They came from broken families. They raised their kids without help, just the two of them, figuring it out as they went. He remembered how many times they would've killed for a break—just a few hours alone, a night to breathe.
So he made sure Julie and her husband got those breaks. He didn't mind. He liked being close to the grandkids. Doubted there were many grandparents out there as close to theirs as he was to his.
And then there was Shawn, his youngest.
Shawn was a bit autistic but a genius with computers. James never fully understood what he did, but he was pretty sure the kid pulled in close to half a million a year—he'd seen enough to believe it. He once liked the computer Shawn worked off of from home, looked it up out of curiosity. It alone sold for nearly a hundred grand if you included the servers running in the spare room.
In fact, Shawn had set up college funds for all his nieces and nephews. Never made a big deal about it. Just did it. Shawn cared in his own way.
He lived in a modest house just outside the city. Nothing flashy. Comfortable. Every inch of it was spotless. Not a dish out of place, not a crumb on the floor. James knew Shawn cleaned it all himself. Probably on a schedule, probably the same time every week. That was just how he was wired.
People were hard for him. Always had been. Conversations didn't flow, crowds drained him, even eye contact could be a hurdle. If not for all the time and effort Ann had poured into him—years of patient explaining, late-night talks, sitting through meetings with school administrators—James wasn't sure where Shawn would've landed. She built the runway so he could take off. James knew that. So did Shawn, even if he couldn't always find the words to say it.
Shawn had always been into anime and video games. It was how he connected to the world, how he made sense of things.
James had tried the games once—some console, the Y Box or whatever it was called. Couldn't stick with it. Weren't for him. Too many buttons, too little patience.
But the anime… that caught him off guard.
At first, it looked like loud, weird cartoons. Characters shouting, exaggerated reactions, strange creatures. But Shawn would sit him down and explain things. The stories, the arcs, how the characters grew, changed, struggled, came out stronger. James had always liked fantasy, and once he looked past the noise and color, he realized there was more going on than he thought.
He got hooked on what Shawn called the "weak to strong" shows. Naruto. Bleach. My Hero Academia. One Piece. He watched and read them with Shawn. Went to comic book events. Sat through panels, stood in line for autographs, asked questions he didn't always understand the answers to. It made Shawn happy, and honestly, James understood more than he expected to. His grandkids said he was becoming a bit of a nerd. He didn't argue.
He actually kept up with One Piece. Said it reminded him of old Westerns sometimes. Honor. Loyalty. Freedom. A crew that stuck together through everything. That part made sense to him. That part he respected.
Only thing was, he couldn't watch the cartoon version much. Said it had things that weren't in the comics they read.
Shawn called it "filler." Said the cartoon got ahead of the comic or maybe behind—James wasn't exactly sure.
He started to walk home. The house was just a couple blocks away. As he moved, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, he looked around and couldn't help thinking how the city was going to shit.
Trash littered the gutters. Cracked pavement underfoot. Tagging on the light poles and walls. A cop car passed, sirens screaming, lights flashing, no sign of slowing down. He didn't even glance at it anymore. Just sighed.
His daughter had been on him for months about moving out to the suburbs. "Closer to us, Dad. Safer. Easier." He didn't disagree, not really. But he was stubborn. He liked his routines. Didn't mind the drive. And this was the house he and Ann had built a life in. He could still see her watering the front garden, sitting on the porch with a book, humming something soft.
God, he missed her.
He passed the corner bar, slowed a little. Thought about going in. Maybe just a beer, maybe a shot of something dark. But he wasn't in the mood to talk. Didn't feel like answering questions, pretending to laugh.
A gust of wind pushed some loose paper down the sidewalk. He watched it tumble before muttering to himself. "Yeah. City's definitely gone to shit."
He took another block before his mind made up for him. Fuck it, he thought. Time to move on. Sell the house, find a condo near Shawn or Julie. Something quieter. Easier.
That's when he heard it—a scream.
Sharp, panicked, and close. A woman's voice. Not some distant cry either—this was just around the corner.
His head snapped toward the alley. Feet already moving. His heart rate kicked up, not from fear, but reflex. The kind that had been drilled into him over years on the job.
As he stepped into the alley, his eyes locked on the scene. Two men. One had a fistful of a woman's coat, yanking at it, trying to rip her shirt open. The other was forcing her shoulders down, one hand tearing at the strap of her bag. Her legs kicked wildly, and her voice cracked as she tried to scream again.
"Bastards," he muttered, reaching under his jacket. His hand found the holster at his waist, the retention already unclicked. He drew the 9mm he legally carried—a weapon he trained with regularly, just out of habit. The weight was familiar. Comforting.
Once a cop, always a cop.
"Hands in the air! Step away from her—now!" His voice was loud and sharp, not yelling but projecting, the kind of tone that cut through adrenaline and stupidity in equal measure.
The two men froze like deer in headlights. The one with her coat let go first, turning just slightly like he was weighing his odds. James stepped in with purpose, feet planted wide, gun leveled, steady hands.
"Knees. Now. Fingers interlocked behind your head."
The woman scrambled backward on her palms, blouse torn at the collar, one knee scraped raw and bleeding. Her chest rose and fell in short, ragged bursts.
"Ma'am, get behind me," James said, eyes still locked on the two men. "You're safe. Just stay low."
Both men dropped to their knees. One was lanky and twitchy, early twenties maybe, wearing a stained hoodie and torn jeans. His hands didn't stop fidgeting. The other was thicker, older, with a greasy ponytail and a scabbed-over lip—looked like he'd already taken a hit. He muttered something under his breath, voice low and bitter. James didn't respond.
He watched their hands, shoulders, hips—every little twitch. That's where the truth was. Not the mouth. The body always gave the warning first.
"Hands up. Fingers behind your head. Lock 'em in," he repeated, calm and clear, gun still centered.
They complied, slow and sloppy. No sudden moves, just hesitation and defiance.
James adjusted his position slightly, just enough to keep a clean angle while turning toward the woman. She sat now, back against the brick wall, still clutching her purse like it was life itself. Her face was pale, lips parted, breath still shaky.
"You hurt?" he asked, voice lower now, softer.
She shook her head quickly, then paused. "I—I think I'm okay," she whispered.
"You can breathe alright?"
She nodded. "Y-yeah."
"I've got you."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Unlocked it one-handed, the other still firm on the pistol, barrel low but steady.
"Don't move. Hands locked. Eyes forward," he said to the two men, voice calm, measured, steady.
He tapped the call button.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"This is James Barrett," he said clearly. "Retired Milwaukee police officer. I'm legally armed and currently holding two male suspects at gunpoint. Attempted assault and robbery. Victim is safe and alert."
"Location?"
"Alley behind the Wash 'n Go on Delmar and 14th. Just west of the main intersection."
"You are armed?"
"Yes. Carry permit is current. I'm white male, six-one, gray hair, black jacket, jeans. Weapon is a 9mm, held low. Both suspects are kneeling with their hands behind their heads. I'm maintaining control of the scene. No shots fired."
"Okay, Mr. Barrett, officers are en route. I'll need you to stay on the line with me."
"I'll set the phone on speaker," he replied calmly. "I need both hands free to maintain control, but the line will stay open."
"That's fine. Keep the line open and remain where you are."
James crouched down just enough to place the phone on the ground to his right, speaker facing up.
"You're live with dispatch," he said aloud, more for the suspects' benefit than anything else. "Scene is secure. I'm not escalating."
He didn't glance at the phone again. His focus stayed on the two men, posture steady, eyes sharp. One of them shifted slightly—James didn't flinch, just adjusted the angle of his stance.
No shouting. No panic.
He was trained for this.
And he wasn't going to let it turn into something worse.
The younger one—the twitchy one—spoke first. Early twenties, wiry frame, jittery hands that hadn't stopped fidgeting since the moment James arrived. His hoodie was baggy, the sleeves stretched out, one elbow dark with something wet—maybe blood, maybe street grime.
"Fuck this," he muttered, then louder. He started to rise, slow but deliberate, like he wanted James to see every inch of defiance.
"Hey. Don't stand," James said, his voice steady, professional. "Do not stand."
The twitchy one turned and glanced at his partner—greasy hair stuck to his temples, pulled back into a limp ponytail. Face pockmarked, lip crusted with dried blood. He was breathing heavy, like he already knew where this was going.
"I get twenty to thirty years if I go back," the younger one spat. "This motherfucker's the police. I ain't going back. Besides…" He glanced at James and grinned, all teeth and adrenaline. "He can't shoot us in the back."
He wasn't wrong.
"Stand up," the kid barked to the older man.
The greasy-haired one hesitated for a half-second, then slowly got to his feet. His expression was cold, unreadable, but his hands were relaxed, swinging a little as he stood.
Dammit, James thought, shifting his stance just enough to adjust his aim. The pistol stayed trained between their shoulders.
"We're walking outta here," the younger one said, voice rising now. "Old man better watch his fuckin' back."
They took a step. Then another. Their movements slow, deliberate, taunting.
James didn't move. Didn't flinch. He kept the gun pointed—perfect form, perfect control. But the weight behind the trigger didn't mean force now. It meant consequence.
They weren't attacking anymore. Weren't armed. They were leaving.
The woman behind him was crying now, her voice raw: "Shoot them! Shoot them! They're going to get away!"
He didn't answer.
He just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes tracking every twitch of their shoulders, the turn of their hips.
The kid was right.
He couldn't shoot them. Not legally. Not ethically. They were retreating, unarmed. The moment they stopped being an imminent threat, the law made its position clear. If he pulled the trigger now—if he fired into their backs—he'd be the criminal. It would be murder, not justice.
"Fuck," he thought, jaw clenched, sliding the 9mm back into its holster.
He crouched, picked up the phone, voice even despite the adrenaline still humming in his chest.
"They ran," he said to the dispatcher. "Both suspects headed east through the alley. One male, white, early twenties, skinny build, gray hoodie, torn jeans, real twitchy. The other, older, heavier, greasy ponytail, dark coat, patchy beard. No visible weapons. They weren't running hard. Should be easy to spot."
"Copy that, Mr. Barrett. Units are arriving now."
And they were—twin sets of headlights lit up the alley seconds later. Tires ground against broken asphalt, red and blue lights slicing through the drizzle. The first car screeched to a stop and two doors flew open.
Out came one older officer—built like a barrel, gray at the temples—and a fresh-faced rookie still tugging at his vest straps.
The older one blinked at James, then smirked.
"Shit. Barrett?"
James let out a low breath. "Hey, Russo."
"Hell, they still let you walk around armed?"
James shrugged. "Legally. And just barely."
The rookie's eyes lit up. "Wait… you're that Barrett? Like, the James Barrett? Metro South, seven stabbings on Christmas Eve, Barrett?"
James gave him a sideways look. "Don't believe everything they tell you at the academy."
Russo grinned. "Don't worry, kid. Half those stories are true, and the other half are probably under seal."
James handed over the phone. "Dispatch is still live. Got most of the call logged. Victim's with EMS, minor injuries, scared but stable."
"You good?" Russo asked, already scanning him out of habit.
"I'm fine," James said. "Just didn't expect this on the walk home."
"Armed?"
"Right side. Holstered."
"Mind if the kid clears it?" Russo asked.
"Go ahead."
The rookie looked almost reverent as he stepped forward, cleared the weapon with textbook care, popped the mag, checked the chamber, and passed it to Russo.
"Thanks," James said. "Good hands."
The kid beamed, just a little.
They took his statement—clean, direct. James gave them the timeline, the commands, the hesitation, the decision not to shoot. The law he followed. The moment he held the line.
The woman was loaded into the back of the ambulance. Before the doors shut, she looked back at James—eyes red, face pale—and gave him the smallest nod.
One of the medics offered him a blanket. He waved it off.
Russo clapped him on the shoulder. "You sure you don't want a lift?"
James shook his head. "Nah. House is close. I need the walk." He said as they have him his gun and ammunition back.
The rookie looked at him like a kid watching a legend disappear into the mist.
James glanced once more down the alley, then muttered to himself, "Yeah… I'm definitely moving." Then turned and started walking into the night.
About ten minutes into his walk, James let the cool night air work its way into his system. The buzz from the earlier adrenaline was finally fading, leaving him tired but steady. The neighborhood was quiet in that way cities get when most folks are either drunk or asleep. Streetlights blinked on, one by one, casting tired yellow halos over cracked pavement and damp sidewalks.
Then came the sound.
Tires. Screeching. Fast.
He turned—instinct, not thought—and caught the glare of headlights just before the impact.
Silver Chevy Cruze. Coming straight for him.
Too fast.
Too late.
The bumper hit low, swept his legs out from under him. His body went up and over the hood like a rag doll. He hit the windshield shoulder-first, then flipped once, limbs limp and trailing.
He came down chest-first onto the pavement with a blunt, hollow thud that knocked every ounce of air from his lungs. The rough asphalt tore through his jacket. His face struck next, hard enough to daze him, then he just—stopped moving.
He was belly-down, splayed out like a dropped sack of meat. The ground was cold. He felt it in his teeth. But everything below his waist felt… gone.
No pain.
Just absence.
He tried to push up with one hand. It slid under him and gave out. He blinked, tasted copper. Rainwater and blood mixing at the corner of his mouth.
Fuck, he thought, cheek pressed to concrete.
But just before he landed, in that blur of motion, he'd seen it—him.
The twitchy kid from the alley. Behind the wheel.
With that a shit-eating grin spread across his face, wide and savage.
James lay still, chest pressed against the pavement, one cheek against the wet concrete. His breathing was slow, controlled. Legs weren't responding, but he had use of his arms, and he wasn't about to waste the one advantage he had left. He kept his eyes mostly closed, just enough to see shadows move through his lashes.
The footsteps came fast—light and careless. The twitchy kid. Sneakers slapping on the pavement.
"I want that piece," the kid said, half to himself. "Keep it. Memento or some shit."
James heard the greasy-haired one farther back, nervous.
"Man, let's just go. This is gettin' hot."
The kid ignored him. "Nah, I want it. Maybe I'll cap his ass with it before we roll." He laughed a little. "Fuckin' old man."
James felt the kid's shadow fall across him. The scrape of denim as the kid crouched. The sound of fingers brushing his jacket, fumbling toward the holster—
James didn't wait.
He already had his gun in hand… waiting.
The kid's hand was just inches away.
James continued to play possum.
Crack.
The shot hit the kid under the chin, upward through the jaw. His body jerked once, then dropped—knees buckling, head snapping back, collapsing beside James like a sack of wet laundry.
James exhaled once through his nose. Shifted his weight just enough to get an angle.
The greasy-haired man, already a few steps into his run, froze for a half-second—then turned hard.
James raised the gun again.
Bang. Bang.
Two shots. Tight grouping.
The man stumbled, then dropped forward. Flat.
James let the gun fall to his side, cheek still pressed to the pavement. The world buzzed. His ribs screamed. Something warm was leaking down his back.
He could feel pain now.
Not sharp—deep. Slow. Spreading from his chest into his back, down his arms. A kind of pressure that told him something inside had given out. His cheek was mashed against the pavement. He could smell the mix of gasoline and wet concrete, blood in his mouth, something coppery in his nose.
His vision blurred at the edges, the red creeping in thicker now. Each blink slower. Each breath shorter.
Maybe I hit my head…? he thought, but it didn't matter. The truth was, he already knew.
He could hear sirens. Getting closer. Tires screeching. Doors slamming. Shouted voices. Static.
Then one voice, clear and close. Familiar.
Russo.
"Hold on, man… hold on…"
James didn't respond.
He thought of John first. Probably in his garage right now, fiddling with fishing rods, organizing ammo. That beat-up red cooler in the corner, still filled with old hunting tags and duct-taped thermoses. The way John laughed when he got a bite before his dad.
He thought of Julie. Probably tucking the kids in. That chaotic house always smelled like something was cooking—pasta, candles, one of the kids' science experiments. He could picture her in the hallway, arms crossed, smiling at the noise like it gave her strength.
And Shawn.
Shawn would be at his desk, headphones on, eyes locked to three monitors like it was nothing. The cat he'd adopted two years ago would be curled at his feet. His phone would buzz soon. James hoped it didn't happen while he was deep into a project. He hoped someone was there when it did.
He thought about the folding chair in his trunk—the one he bought so his back wouldn't hurt at his grandson's football game. He'd even cleaned it off, ready to unfold it right near the end zone.
The game was this Saturday.
Maybe I'll get out in time…
No. He knew better.
He wasn't getting out. Not this time.
Everything felt further away now. Russo's voice was still there, but it sounded like it was coming from underwater.
He thought about Ann.
The way she used to hum when folding laundry. The peppermint shampoo she made the whole house smell like. That quiet way she smiled when he was being stubborn.
He hoped she was there. Waiting. Maybe holding out her hand.
He wasn't afraid.
Just tired.
Then—quiet.
Then—black.