Chapter 4 - The House on Maple StreetForty-five minutes later, my sedan crept down the familiar, tree-lined avenue of Maple Street with its headlights off, rolling silently into the driveway of my own home. The house was dark except for a single amber light glowing in the kitchen window.
In the passenger seat, my father checked the slide of his sidearm. In the back, Agent Miller ran a silent diagnostic on a frequency jammer designed to block all cellular signals coming in or out of the neighborhood.
"Remember," Raymond whispered as we cut the engine. "No hesitation. They aren't professional soldiers; they're mercenaries. Greed makes them sloppy, but desperation makes them lethal."
We slipped out of the car into the biting autumn wind. The front door of the house was unlocked—a deliberate invitation.
I stepped into the foyer first, the familiar smell of floor wax and vanilla candles hitting my senses, completely juxtaposed with the metallic tang of fresh gun oil.
"Julian?"
A voice drifted from the hallway. It was my mother. But this time, it was actually her. Her voice was trembling, stripped of all pretense.
"Julian, don't move!" she cried out from the living room doorway as she stumbled into the dim light of the hall, her wrists bound with heavy plastic zip-ties, her face pale with terror. "They're inside! They have Celeste and the kids in the cellar!"
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Before I could take a step toward her, a heavy shadow detached itself from the stairwell ceiling, and a thick forearm locked around my throat, lifting my feet off the floor.
"Drop the weapon, Mr. Mercer," a raspy voice hissed in my ear, the cold barrel of a pistol pressing firmly against the base of my skull. "Or watch your mother lose her other son tonight."
