Writer's Note Two: I'll recognize anyone who can tell me the tv show this was originally based on. Any guesses?
Detective Martin Sanchez, a compact Puerto Rican, paused in the doorway before going into the narrow, dusky hallway from the sunlit room. He'd thoroughly checked the room behind him and the one across the hall; no one was there. To his left, the hall ended in a door, so the only way to go was right. With a deep, cleansing breath, he stepped into the dim hallway quickly, glancing right and left, his gun pointing down the hallway as he checked around him. He began moving to the right, slowly, his pistol against his leading leg, clasped in both hands, pointing at the floor, arms straight. Every two or three steps, he switched sides of the hall, eyes on the sun-lit room at the end of the hall.
He was on the left side of the hall when he reached a door he hadn't seen from down the hall. He paused, took a deep breath, and stepped quickly into the kitchen, arms stretched out and ready to fire, both hands on the pistol. He methodically checked the room, one ear listening for movement in the hallway, only to decide that no one would choose a room this open to hide in. He returned to the hallway, pistol back against his legs, and started to walk down the hall again.
Just before entering the room, he paused and tried to think where they could be. From where he stood, still in the shadows, the room looked empty, but they had to be in there. He'd checked the whole apartment. It occurred to him suddenly that he hadn't seen his partner since he'd come in, and he glanced behind him. Not a sight, no movement that he could hear. Where had he gone? He didn't dare leave where he was to find him, but it puzzled him that he hadn't seen him. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he stepped into the room, gun preceding him at arm's length and shoulder height, both hands on the pistol. He quartered the room, moving like a clock, in smooth motions.
Empty. He glanced to the window, noticed it was opened and dropped his pistol to his side, then walked over to it and looked out, leaning on his left hand. He swore under his breath when he saw the fire escape under it, and went back to the center of the living room, his pistol still hanging uselessly at his side. He glanced around at the two couches, his eyebrows drawing together. They didn't sit against the wall.... The gun began to come up again.
He didn't get it up before he got hit from three different directions. He dropped to his knees in surprise as he felt the wetness soak into his shirt, and looked at the three heads poking over the couches. "My partner.... on the take....," he muttered, then collapsed onto the floor, his pistol in his right hand, stretched out to his side, his left hand over the wounds in his midriff.
With giggles, the three boys, ten, eight, and five years old, swarmed over the couches and rushed him. The dead body suddenly came to life, targeting each of the boys with one shot of the water pistol before they reached him, and the whole group dissolved into a tangled mess as the boys all tried to tickle their uncle. Martin decided that perhaps baby-sitting his nephews wasn't so bad after all and went after them with renewed vigor until they all collapsed from laughter, gasping for breath.
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