Chapter 35 - Into the Dark
The interior of the root cellar smelled of damp earth, stored winter squash, and old stone.
I lowered Jordan gently onto a pile of heavy wool blankets in the corner, while Annie knelt beside Justin, whispering soothingly into his ear to keep him calm as he blinked sleepily against the dark.
“Stay right here with Annie, boys,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion as I checked the magazine of the 9mm tactical sidearm I had retrieved from my executive safe. “Daddy has to take care of something outside.”
“Don’t go, Daddy,” Jordan whispered, his small fingers catching the fabric of my sleeve, echoing the exact terror from fourteen months ago.
Annie reached over, covering Jordan’s hand with hers. Her eyes met mine in the dim glow of our emergency flashlight.
“Go,” she said softly. “I’ve got them. Nobody touches these boys.”
I gave her a single, firm nod, turned away, and slipped back up the stone steps toward the main house, pulling the heavy wooden cellar door shut until it clicked softly into place.
The kitchen was empty, but the front entryway was a disaster zone. The heavy oak door had been splintered completely off its reinforced steel hinges. Heavy tactical boots had tracked dark mud across the hardwood floor.
Three men dressed in unmarked black tactical gear, wearing night-vision goggles and carrying suppressed submachine guns, were methodically sweeping the living room.
I didn't hesitate. I raised the sidearm, stepped out from the shadow of the pantry archway, and fired two precise warning shots into the oak ceiling beams above their heads.
“Drop your weapons!” I roared, the voice of a CEO who had built an empire echoing like thunder through the silent house. “Federal property! Drop them now!”
The three operatives froze instantly, their tactical training overriding their surprise. They slowly lowered their weapons, turning their night-vision-goggled helmets toward me.
Before the lead operative could raise his rifle in retaliation, a deafening crash echoed from the front porch.
Headlights flooded the shattered entryway, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air as a massive black pickup truck smashed directly through the remaining exterior wall of the living room, pinning two of the operatives against the brick fireplace with a sickening crunch of steel and masonry.
The third operative spun around, raising his weapon toward the truck, but before he could pull the trigger, the driver’s door of the truck flew open.
A familiar figure stepped down from the cab, holding a heavy-gauge shotgun with absolute, professional calm.
May you like
Special Agent Vance.
“Drop the weapon, son,” Agent Vance said coldly, racking the shotgun pump with a metallic clack that echoed like a death sentence. “You’re trespassing on federal jurisdiction.”
