Chapter 2 - THE SIEGE OF CABIN FOURTEENNatalie didn't move toward the root cellar. Her maternal instincts, hardened by years of surviving alone, morphed into something feral. She sprinted to the hallway closet, pulled down a heavy wooden lockbox, and punched in the combination. Inside lay her ex-husband’s unregistered Glock 19—a parting gift she had kept hidden for emergencies just like this.
She checked the magazine. Full.
When she ran back into the kitchen, Dante Moretti was already on his feet, leaning heavily against the counter. He had ripped the thermal blankets away and pulled a heavy black tactical knife from the ankle sheath of his ruined suit pants. Where he had retrieved the knife she hadn't noticed, but the way he held it spoke of thousands of hours of lethal muscle memory.
"You're going to kill yourself standing," Natalie hissed, shoving the Glock into the waistband of her scrub pants.
"I'm already dead if I stay sitting," Dante muttered, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. "How many entrances?"
"Front door, back porch, and the cellar hatch outside."
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The front door shook under the force of a heavy kick. Wood splintered around the deadbolt. Goliath went berserk on the other side of the kitchen door, throwing his massive weight against the wood, snarling with a fury that sounded demonic.
"Open up! Federal Marshals! Execution warrant!" a harsh voice yelled from the front porch.
Dante let out a dark, mocking laugh that turned into a wet cough. "Marshals don't knock like that. And they don't wear unmarked tactical gear."
"Federal Marshals!" the voice shouted again, followed by the unmistakable metallic clack of a shotgun being racked.
Natalie’s heart plummeted. Dante caught her eye. "They aren't law enforcement, Natalie. They're my uncle's cleanup crew. Led by Viktor. If they cross this threshold, every living thing in this cabin dies."
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Another massive kick hit the front door. The deadbolt snapped, and the door swung open, revealing the dark silhouette of a massive man in black tactical gear, holding a suppressed assault rifle.
Before the intruder could step inside, a slate-gray blur launched from the shadows of the hallway. Goliath hit the man like a freight train.
