Chapter 1

Thirty-five days before Protocol, Stephen looked up from the list he’d been working on for hours. He wasn’t sure how things had spiraled so far out of control—but they had. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow as the weight of what the list represented sank in. A tightness gripped his chest, and his anxiety surged like a rising tide.    

He glanced across the table at his wife, who was scribbling on a similar list. His voice came out as a strained gasp. “Shelly… I think we’re screwed.”

“Is it that bad?” she asked, looking up sharply and setting her pen beside the list.

“It is. Payday came up short, and I need another sixty bucks just to fill the tank and get to work.”

“We can take it from the grocery bill. We should have—” Shelly began, but Stephen cut her off.

“No. You and Jace haven’t had a decent meal in months. I can maybe stretch the gas, but it’ll be tight.”

Shelly stood, slid her chair next to his, and wrapped an arm around him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“We’ll make it. We always do. Did you check on that job Carter sent you?” Her words came gently, calm and steady—reassuring. Shelly had a gift for this kind of moment, all quiet empathy and effortless grace.

Stephen tilted his head and rested it gently against hers. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s an overnight security gig at that old warehouse in Shawano—you know the one.” He gestured vaguely in the air.

Shelly wrapped her hands around his left arm and turned to face him. “I think you should take it—just for a few months, until we get out from under the credit card debt. Once the cards are paid off, you can quit. We’ll be okay.”

Stephen had been weighing the job for days. The pay wasn’t great, but it was easy—just sitting in a guard shack from midnight to 10 a.m., four nights a week. He could kill time watching YouTube or playing mobile games—the free kind, the ones that didn’t make you pay to win.

“I should…” he said cautiously, reluctant to commit. He knew the moment he did, Shelly would drive him like a cowboy herding a steer. She had a way of pushing him to be his best—whether by instinct or just the sheer force of her love.

He turned the options over in his mind—pros and cons, risk and reward. How long would it take to pay off the credit cards?

“How much do we owe now?” he asked.

Shelly lifted her head from his arm and slid the sheet she’d been working on over to him.

His eyes widened. “Twenty-two thousand, four hundred and fifty?”

“The insurance didn’t cover all of Jace’s cancer meds this month,” Shelly said softly, almost in a whisper.

Stephen stared at the numbers, frozen in stunned disbelief. His insurance from the grocery store job was supposed to cover the medication—maybe not everything, but enough. He’d been told he’d only need to pay a small co-pay, not the full cost like Shelly just said.

“I’m going to call the insurance company—see if we can get reimbursed for—” Shelly cut him off this time.

“I already did, baby.” She didn’t look at him, just rested her head back on his shoulder. “They said we’ve exceeded the allotment. From now until next year, it’s all on us.”

Stephen felt the world around him fade to black. His vision tunneled, and a wave of dizziness swept over him.

How are we supposed to pay for the medicine? The question echoed in his mind.

As anxiety, fear, and dread pooled in his gut, the full weight of what it meant finally hit him. His chest tightened. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Jace doesn’t have until next year. It’s barely August… If he doesn’t get this treatment, he dies.”

His voice was barely a whisper as tears splattered onto the paper below.

“I know…” Shelly whispered, tightening her grip on his arm as she buried her face deeper into his shoulder.

She didn’t show it, but Shelly was crying too.

Their first and only child had been diagnosed with lymphoma at just twelve years old. It started after a fall at football practice. She’d taken him to the ER, thinking it was nothing serious—maybe a sprain or a bruise. But the tests came back strange. “His numbers are way off,” the doctor had said.

With every sentence that followed, new possibilities had flooded their minds. Maybe it was an infection. Maybe something rare but treatable. Maybe just a scare.

But then came the word that changed everything.

But then the big C-word entered the conversation—cancer—and everything changed. Their baby had cancer.

Stephen gently pushed the list aside and wrapped an arm around Shelly. “I’ll call the agency and take the job,” he said quietly. “Maybe we can keep up with the cost of the meds if we put it on credit…” He gave her a reassuring squeeze.

Through her tears, Shelly said, “I know I can’t get more shifts at the restaurant… but maybe I could pick up something at the gas station?”

“No,” Stephen said softly. “Jace needs you here at night.”

He hesitated, then added, “The guard job pays around fifteen an hour. That’s maybe $450 a week after taxes. If we throw all of it at the credit card, we should be able to keep up… right?”

“Even if we throw all of that at the cards, it’s still going to take years to pay off,” Shelly said, sitting up and tugging her T-shirt straight. “I’ll ask the doctor if there’s any help we can get with the meds.” She glanced at him. “In the meantime, we need to figure out how you’re getting to and from work.”

Stephen sat in silence, listening. She was right—she almost always was. He needed to take the job and find a way to stretch what little money they had left.

“Babe, call Carter,” she said at last.

The words snapped him out of his daze. It was just after nine—Carter would be in the office, sipping his morning coffee. Stephen grabbed his phone, found the contact, and hit dial.

“Empire Staffing Services—We fill your holes. This is Carter. How can I help?”

Stephen groaned. “Carter, you’ve got to come up with a better tagline. That one’s so lewd no company’s going to want to work with you,” Stephen said flatly.

"Hey, it’s worked so far. You calling about that security gig, bud?"

"Yeah, I’ve got to get some more income coming in."

Carter had been close with Stephen and Shelly since high school. Ever since Jace's lymphoma diagnosis, he’d kept an eye out for overnight staffing gigs—something Stephen could manage on top of his full-time job during the day.

"The security gig is four nights a week—Friday through Monday," he said. "I can get you in starting tomorrow. I’ve already got most of your info, so it’s just paperwork and signatures. No one checks in during the night. The warehouse is empty—just a building on a dead lot. We’re basically just keeping squatters out. Any questions?"

"I’ll come up today to sign everything. Is there a uniform or anything I need to bring? And… do I get to carry a gun, just in case?"

"No weapons. You’re not allowed to carry. They’ll give you a badge and four shirts—that’s it. Pretty simple gig."

Stephen took a breath and nodded. “Okay. I really appreciate this, Carter. Thanks again.”

“Hey, anything I can do to help you guys. I know you’re going through a lot. I just wish it were more.”

The line went dead as Stephen ended the call. He still had a few hours before his grocery store shift, enough time to get dressed and head over to sign the paperwork with Carter.

Stephen and Shelly wiped away the morning’s tears and put on brave faces when Jace woke up. His bald head glistened with sweat, his eyes still heavy with sleep. As he sat down to eat, they exchanged a glance, then each leaned in to gently kiss the top of his head.

——-

Stephen stepped into the squat, one-story office just off 5th Street and signed the register at the front window. As he made his way toward the empty row of chairs, Carter’s voice called out from the back.

“Hey, bud. Here’s your stuff—just need you to sign here and here,” Carter said, speaking quickly as he pointed to spots on a sheet of paper, then to a stack of neatly folded shirts and a heavy gold badge. The badge sat on top beside two rust-covered keys, all laid out on the edge of his desk.

Stephen signed the forms and gathered his uniform. Just as he turned to leave, Carter stopped him.

"I'm not supposed to tell you this, Steve—so if anyone asks, I’ll deny it. But take your pistol or something with you tomorrow night."

Carter nodded toward the TV in the corner. A news broadcast played footage of riots, the newscaster droning over scenes of chaos.

"It’s getting bad out there. Real bad. They said the riots are turning violent. Bodies were just left in the streets last night over in Manitowoc. Bled out, right there on the pavement."

"Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind."

Stephen didn’t usually follow the news. Life was already overwhelming, and adding more to his plate felt pointless. Honestly, he didn’t understand how someone as busy as Carter had time for it—it just seemed like a waste.

"I'm serious, buddy. Swear to me you’ll take your pistol. There’ve been dozens of murders in just a few nights—and it’s not just here. It’s happening everywhere. The whole world’s going to hell in a handbasket."

Carter’s voice softened. "I don’t want Shelly and Jace to lose you. They need you, man. They wouldn’t make it without you."

Stephen looked at him. Carter’s graying goatee trembled slightly as he sat there, waiting for an answer.

"Fine," Stephen said, relenting. He didn’t like that he wasn’t supposed to carry a weapon and was already being pressured to—but he trusted Carter. If anyone had his back, it was him.

Carter had looked like he was about to stand before Stephen spoke. When the answer came, he let out a visible sigh and gave a slow nod.

"Call me Saturday morning and let me know how it went, okay?"

Stephen gave a curt nod. “You got it, man.”

As he left, he tapped the doorjamb with his hand. Behind him, Carter turned up the volume on the news.

"Riots have entered their sixth day, with dozens more killed in the streets. Police are urging residents to stay indoors and lock their doors, as all active-duty officers have been called in to control the violence. So far, no suspects have been identified."

——-

Stephen pinned the badge to his left breast pocket and immediately felt out of place. The uniform hung awkwardly on his smaller frame, bulky like it was designed to fit over a bulletproof vest. As he tugged at the shirt, trying to smooth it out, Shelly walked into the bedroom.

“Look at my hot officer man!” she said with a whistle, giving Stephen a playful smack on the butt.

Stephen gave a half-smirk. “It’s like four sizes too big—it looks like a damn raincoat.”

He lifted his arms, motioning to the excess fabric hanging from his biceps to his chest.

“It’s fine,” she said, reassuring him. “It’s loose and comfortable—easier to sleep in. You’re not expecting anything to happen tonight, are you? It’s just an empty warehouse on the edge of town.”

“Carter made me swear to take my nine,” Stephen said flatly. “I don’t even know where I’m supposed to carry it. I haven’t touched it since I bought it—never even fired the damn thing.”

Shelly walked to the bedside table, pulled a black case from the drawer, and set it on the bed. She flipped open the latches and lifted the lid, revealing a sleek black pistol nestled in its holster.

She pulled the pistol and holster from the case and handed them to Stephen. “Well, looks like you’re taking it after all.”

Stephen sighed and threaded his belt through the holster loops, fastening the pistol at his side. Beside him, Shelly began loading rounds into the spare magazines.

It didn’t feel natural. It felt wrong.

But then he looked at Shelly—those dark blue eyes, that dark hair—and understood why he was doing it. It was for her. For home.

“Carter seemed pretty shaken about the riots and the murders—and I get it. They’re getting closer. And what better place for a bunch of psychos to hide than an abandoned warehouse?”

Stephen kept adjusting the belt, trying to make the holster sit right. After a few more tugs, he gave up with a sigh, unthreaded it, and tossed it onto the bed.

“I’ll just bring it with me.”

Shelly quietly finished loading both magazines, placing one back in the case and sliding the other into the pistol. Then she holstered it and secured the latch.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine tonight,” she said softly. “It’ll be quiet—you might even get some rest.”

Stephen kept fussing with his uniform until Shelly stepped in front of him and gently turned him to face her. She wrapped her arms around him, and he pulled her close.

“I’ll be safe,” he murmured, holding her tight.

“You better be.”

——-

The roads around Shawano were silent and dark at midnight. Stephen had already been stopped several times by police, each time explaining where he was headed. Once they saw his badge and paperwork, they waved him through without much hassle.

The warehouse sat in a run-down part of town, weeds pushing through cracks in the pavement. The road looked like it had once seen heavy use but was now as empty and forgotten as the building itself. With crumbling asphalt beneath his tires, Stephen guided his beat-up Corolla down the deserted road, flanked by dark woods. The only light came from the lot at the end of the long drive, where the warehouse loomed in silence.

As he pulled closer, Stephen noticed something odd—there was no guard on duty. He wasn’t relieving anyone. That struck him as strange.

If the shift started at midnight on a Friday, shouldn’t someone already be here? He made a mental note to do a thorough sweep once he was inside.

The warehouse was a large, rectangular block of concrete, surrounded by cracked pavement and decay. A rusted metal fence topped with barbed wire enclosed the property, with a single entry point guarded by a weather-beaten shack. Weeds sprouted from its clogged gutters, curling over the roof like overgrowth reclaiming it.

Stephen groaned at the sight. If the inside was anything like the outside, he’d be stuck in his car for the next ten hours—and that thought didn’t sit well.

Stephen pulled up to the shack and shifted into park, leaving the headlights on to light the interior. He unlocked the door and gave the place a quick once-over—it was in rough shape, just as he’d feared.

With a sigh, he looked for a spot to park where he’d have a clear view of the property.

Stephen backed the car up against the chain-link gate, shifted into park, and shut off the engine—leaving the accessory power on so the radio would keep playing.

He sighed again, opened the door, and stepped out, the crunch of broken concrete loud beneath his boots. Clicking on the small flashlight he’d brought, he began a slow sweep of the property—checking the fence line, the doors, the warehouse, and anywhere else someone might hide.

Everything was secure—and oddly untouched. Stephen closed the gate, climbed back into his car, and settled in for the long night ahead.