Okay. I know how this story goes, now.
Most of the homes in Churchill were either two-story townhouses, or single-story double-wide trailers. This one was a bit more solid, if you ignored the plywood covering one window. “This was one of the ones where they used flash-bangs,” Beltran explained as they entered the house. “Sticky rounds, too. Hola, Elena.”
“Talk anglo, Carlos,” the other Agent smilingly chided back at him as they shook hands. She was yet another hispanic, maybe in her late thirties, and Norm thought she’d be pretty in a spare way if she didn’t look so tired. “It makes them feel better. This is your charge?”
“He is. Norm Baker. Ex-Peep. Yours is… Ashelyn Mullin-Clark. Used to be a Coexister, right?”
“Yeah. She’s watching the door,” Agent Madole told Beltran while shaking hands with Norm (which surprised him, actually). “You know. Just in case.”
“You haven’t cleared it? Good. Must have been tempting, though,” Beltran observed as they entered the house. Norman’s nose twitched at the combination of ozone, pepper, and vomit he subconsciously associated with sticky rounds, and he hastened to put on a mask. The other two ignored the reek.