Let me tell you something about waiting. In Fallujah, we learned that waiting meant dying. Hesitation meant good people didn’t come home. Every second you wait for “protocol” is a second the enemy uses to kill.
The school’s front doors were glass, already shattered. The shooter had come through the main entrance. We could hear screaming from inside, children’s voices—the kind of sound that never leaves your nightmares.
Officer Bradley was screaming into his radio. “Civilians entering the building! Multiple bikers! Can’t confirm if they’re with the shooter!”
That’s when everything went to hell.
We entered through the front, glass crunching under our boots. The main hallway stretched ahead, classroom doors on both sides. Some open, some closed. The gunfire was coming from the north wing—second grade classrooms.
A little boy, maybe six, was hiding behind a water fountain, crying so hard he couldn’t breathe.
“Hey buddy,” Rico said softly, scooping him up. “We’re the good guys. Where’s your teacher?”
“She… she told us to run…”Continue reading…
