Officer James G. Crowe’s day began like any other: his wife preventing him from sleeping late; a long shower, hoping to work the knots out of his back; cold cereal with the kids; and then, finally, suiting up and going to work.

But Crowe’s day really began when his SWAT unit was ordered to “enter the diner” and “contain the situation.” Which — of course — they did.

Inside there was: one dead guy, his neck contorted to a wrong angle; one very attractive woman in black leather, who was squirming on the ground in obvious pain; one middle-aged guy, wearing a trench coat; and one skinny-ass kid.

“Hands where I can see them… now, now, now,” one of Crowe’s fellow officers screamed.

The guy spoke to the kid, a flutter of words like “bullets” and “Phlegethon” and “teleport.” And then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

The woman stopped writhing and started to rise. She refused all orders to halt, to stay put. And her face was contorted in anger. Crowe put the butt of his rifle into her forehead.