The screen door slammed behind us, sealing in the stifling tension of the San Diego house I thought was a sanctuary. My fingers tightened around Nora’s small, cold hand as we walked down the concrete driveway toward my car.

I kicked the rusted metal side door off its hinges with a deafening crash. The impact echoed through the cavernous shed like a gunshot.

Marcus whirled around with lightning speed, his hand diving toward his waistband where a heavy-caliber Sig Sauer was holstered.

"Don't move!" I roared, leveling my pistol straight at his chest.

Marcus froze, his eyes widening in recognition. A slow, mocking grin stretched across his scarred face. "Ethan Reynolds. I wondered when you'd show up. You think you're pretty tough playing the protective dad, don't you? But you're too late. The transfer orders are already automated. Even if you kill me, the system takes everything you have by midnight."

"You’re not getting a single dime, Marcus," I said, stepping forward across the concrete floor, keeping my weapon locked dead on his center mass.

Before Marcus could draw, a sudden, sharp crack echoed from the rafters above.

A high-powered rifle shot shattered the halogen light overhead, plunging the warehouse into sudden, disorienting darkness.

"What the hell—!" Marcus gasped, diving behind a heavy steel workbench as muzzle flashes lit up the opposite end of the shed.

Someone else was here. A second shooter.

"Ethan, get down! That wasn't my team!" Caleb's voice barked frantically through my earpiece.

Through the gloom, a shadowy figure dropped silently from the overhead rafters, landing with a soft thud near the back exit. It wasn't a federal marshal. It was a woman wearing tactical gear, her face obscured by a dark balaclava, holding a suppressed carbine rifle.

Marcus scrambled toward the back door, shouting, "Cover me! Cover me!"