Word Count: 267
The moon hung high in the sky, yellow, bloated, expectant. Every man in the group was aware of it, but none more so than Alex. His eyes slid toward the orb, then back down to the grass. Then back up again.
Bad luck follows the moon. An odd superstition for a swat team member, maybe, but he knew some of the other men were also on edge, could see it in their lined faces, their furtive glances into the shadows.
All around Alex the slight shufflings of movement sounded, of boots on hard packed earth, of weapons held at check.
In front of them, the small yellow two story house sat in darkness. Trees hovered around the roof occasionally making scratching noises and some kind of bug trilled shrilly in the bushes.
Sweat dripped off Alex’s brow.
Inside a drug dealer slept. Mark Belltrollis, aka Bellman, aka Belltolls, a midlevel worthless punk who was hardly worth the week of preparation Alex’s team had put into his capture. Hardly worth all of the anxiety coursing through his brain, and his nerves, and his muscles tonight.
The soft whisper of an ear radio signalled that the other team was ready.
Two of Alex’s colleagues stepped forward with a door ram, then slammed it against the door, bursting the wood, and each man rushed inside.
Alex was third in line and the first up the stairs. He cleared the landing, stepped aside as Rourke slid beside him, tossing the cannister into the room. A pause, then the flash bang went off, and the shrieks began.