Gunfire erupted from the darkened house.
An unmarked police car sat in the driveway, its blue lights whirling madly in the hot Detroit night.
There were no screams, no shouts of fright or anger.
There were no mad rushes, no frantic footsteps fleeing the scene.
And there was only silence on the police radio.
Stillness strangled the night.
Ten minutes passed.
The front door of the house opened.
Thirty-one year old Joey Ballios stumbled out onto the porch and down to the broken sidewalk. The badge on his hip reflected dully in the street light. A gun hung loosely from the fingers of his left hand. His face was pale, his breathing labored. He fell to his knees.
With eyes shot with blood, Joey stared up into the heat muffled heavens. Two angry tears seared down his cheek. For the first time since he was a child, the ten year police veteran prayed.
Joey Ballios' partner was dead, his blood wet and hot on Joey's hands.
A secret would soon be born as hell descended upon Joey Ballios with nary a whimper.