Chapter 1 - The Shadow of the Wolf
“If you open that door, we both die. If you don't, they'll burn us alive.”The heavy oak wood of Elena’s front door rattled under the force of another blow. Outside, the gravel groaned under the weight of at least a dozen armed men. Through the slit in her faded curtains, the early morning fog of coastal Oregon was sliced to pieces by the glaring high beams of five identical, armor-plated black SUVs.
Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was a trauma nurse; she was used to blood, chaos, and the desperate scramble to keep a soul tethered to a body. But she was not used to being hunted. She was not used to military-grade rifles pointing at her front porch.
Beside her, the man who called himself Volkov stood.
He shouldn't have been able to stand. By all medical logic, his ribs were fractured, his left lung was partially collapsed, and the wound on his temple was still sluggishly weeping blood. Yet, he rose like a specter from the grave, his silver-gray eyes cold and empty of fear.
“My weapon,” he repeated, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the small living room.
Elena’s hands shook as she reached into her pocket. She had taken the heavy, custom-made semi-automatic pistol from his jacket when she stripped him of his wet clothes to prevent hypothermia. She handed it to him. The moment his fingers wrapped around the grip, his entire demeanor changed. The weak, drowning man vanished. In his place stood a predator.
“Do you have a back door?” Volkov whispered, checking the chamber with a practiced, silent motion.
“It leads to the deck, but there's a drop-off into the ravine,” Elena breathed, her voice barely a whisper. “It's too steep. They'll have eyes on it.”
“They will,” Volkov agreed, his gaze locked on the front door. “But they won't expect us to go through the floor.”
Before Elena could ask what he meant, the man outside called out again. The voice was cultured, smooth, and chillingly polite.
“Miss Marlowe, we know you are inside. We know Mr. Volkov is with you. We have no desire to spill innocent blood, but our patience is not infinite. You have thirty seconds to step out with your hands visible.”
“Who are they?” Elena whispered, her eyes wide. “The police? Government?”
Volkov let out a dry, humorless sound that might have been a laugh. “Worse. My family.”
He grabbed Elena’s arm—his grip still impossibly strong—and dragged her toward the kitchen. He kicked aside the hand-woven rug beneath the dining table, revealing a wooden hatch. It was the access door to the crawlspace where the water heater was kept.
“Down. Now,” he commanded.
“Wait, what about you?”
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“I am right behind you. Move!”
Just as Elena scrambled down the narrow wooden ladder into the damp, dirt-scented dark of the crawlspace, the front door of her bungalow exploded inward with a deafening crash.
