CPI Security. Identify Yourself...or not

CPI security screeches its ignorable alarm as a man, dressed in night, bursts through the full length window at the front of the house. His body black against the night, a shadow; he pauses for a moment as he is spotlighted by the half-moon of early October. Middle Eastern brown eyes glinting, with the 9 millimeter handgun pulsing intermittently, adrenaline filled and imminent, a thick hand flicks on a flashlight. At eye level it moves professionally, an extension of his very own vision, as he flits through the territory of the unfamiliar house like a hornet, deranged, wanting for something but not knowing yet what that will be. And he would get it, whatever it was. Deceptively, down the long, narrow corridor of the hallway he drips, like the wet mold of the aging house, he creeps, cautiously, but without anxiety. His left hand firmly grips the pistol, his right squeezing it to the flashlight almost as a single weapon. The squeak of bedroom slippers softly penetrates his heightened senses amidst the awoken and blaring darkness. The intruder halts. He was not alone. Bedroom slippers and flannel pants on, the wood cut man, grabs the 22. in his drawer, with flexed arms and heightened senses he opens the door with his gun. It clicks into place. He tiptoes into the hallway and gunfire erupts; rushed shots flying from the perpetrator. The muscular man spins in behind the door frame, firing a series of hopeless amateurish shots which explode into the walls in the home of his childhood. Drowning breaths ventilate him as he makes himself a statue, in the midst of frenzied gunfire and Arabic gibberish. The hornet moves in, slinking down the enduring walls. Two feet away and he is noted, his presence met with a desperate spin from the protection of the doorframe.  Two barrels on two foreheads lay, warm from firing, but evoking, in the impaling words of Fever 1973, the cold and ‘yellow scent of death’. Two pairs of brown eyes meet, neither innocent, though neither entirely guilty, both, scared. Each sees themself in the eyes of their opponent, forced to bear cause for the casualties so near and so close. Looking into their eyes, passion is eliminated, each person stands shakily wielding the irrevocable power of death in their hands, and knowing the effect of this tragedy, they wait. Silent, deathlike seconds rumble by. No shot is fired. Death having been evaded, fear raged, shock intoxicated, and lives changed, but no shot is fired. The power of death in two capable hands extinguished by selfishness, brought on by efficiency, and no shot is fired. Idle threats and maxed out advancement; still, no shot is fired.