Chapter 6 - THE TURNABOUTTime seemed to slow down to a crawl. I saw the slight twitch of Victoria’s finger on the trigger, the glint of the brass casing in the chamber, the red laser dot centering dead on my sternum.
I didn't think. I reacted.
With a violent heave, I grabbed my father’s heavy wooden workbench and flipped it forward with every ounce of adrenaline in my body.
Crash!
The workbench slammed into the concrete floor just as a suppressed thip-thip echoed through the basement. Two bullets punched straight through the heavy oak tabletop, splintering wood inches from my hands.
Victoria cursed sharply, her flashlight beam swinging wildly as the heavy workbench blocked her line of sight.
I didn't wait for her to adjust her aim. I scrambled across the concrete floor, diving behind a stack of heavy wooden storage crates filled with my mother’s winter blankets.
"You can't hide down here, Daniel!" Victoria called out, her heels clicking methodically as she stalked around the side of the workbench. "This house is miles away from the main road. The police aren't coming back tonight. You're completely alone."
She was right about the distance, but she was wrong about the company.
As I crouched behind the storage crates, my hand brushed against something cold and metallic resting on the floor—an old-fashioned cast-iron fireplace poker that my father had kept near the coal chute decades ago.
I gripped the heavy iron rod, feeling its solid, reassuring weight in my palm.
Footsteps approached the end of the aisle. The beam of the flashlight swept across the floor, stopping just feet from my hiding spot. I could see the hem of her expensive wool coat, the sleek leather of her boots.
She raised the pistol, leaning around the stack of crates to check the corner.
I didn't give her the chance.
With a roar, I launched myself out from behind the crates, swinging the heavy iron poker with all the force of a man fighting for his wife, his son, and his own life.
Clang!
The poker caught the barrel of Victoria’s pistol with bone-shattering impact, knocking the gun out of her hand. It spun through the air and clattered uselessly into a dark corner of the basement.
Before she could recover her balance, I slammed my shoulder into her chest, driving her backward against the concrete wall.
Victoria let out a sharp gasp as the wind was knocked out of her lungs. Her head struck the concrete with a dull thud, and she slid down the wall, collapsing unconscious onto the cold floor.
I stood over her, chest heaving, sweat pouring down my face, the heavy iron poker still gripped tightly in my trembling hands.
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I had survived. But the night wasn't over yet. Because out in the driveway, cutting through the quiet Cedar Rapids air, came the unmistakable sound of multiple car engines idling.
More of them were here.
