"Portland PD! Open up!"

Nick Burkhardt yelled into apartment 422. The police had gotten complaints of a disturbance, and Nick and his partner, Hank Griffin, had been the closest unit, so they were checking it out. There was a frantic shuffling behind the closed door, but no answer.

Nick nodded silently to his partner, and counted to three on his fingers. On three, Nick stepped back and Hank kicked the door in. After rushing in, they were met with an unexpected scene. Four middle aged guys lay still on the carpeted floor, blood pooled around them, faces slack, obviously dead. Their throats had been slashed, torn apart really. But that wasn't the strange thing. A boy, who couldn't have been more than 17, with spiked black hair, a plaid shirt, and an expression that was a mixture of surprise and something similar to getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar, sat tied to a chair, unharmed except for a small bruise that was forming under his eye. A tall, slightly older man stood next to him, with dark hair, a black leather jacket, and bright green eyes. His hands, which were at his side, had blood dripping down them, making tiny splashes of red on the white carpet. The window was shattered into pieces, the glass forming almost a mosaic on the floor.

Nick raised his gun at the man, ordering him to freeze, while Hank cleared the rest of the apartment.

"Clear." He confirmed, and raised his gun at the tall man as well.

"Put your hands up." Nick ordered. "Slowly."

The man looked to the teenager, who just shrugged at him, then raised his hands up. The teenager smiled sheepishly.

"I can explain?"

Just then three more officers burst into the room, and stopped suddenly when they saw the scene in front of them. They looked to Nick for an explanation, but he was just as confused as them. What had this kid gotten himself into?