Chapter 5 - The Breach at the Ridge
Before Mara could answer, a blinding white light cut through the hemlock trees at the bottom of the hill.
Two heavy SUVs—black, unbadged Chevy Suburbans with massive brush guards—swept up the gravel driveway at high speed, their high beams pinning us against the front of the cabin like butterflies on a board.
“INSIDE! GET INSIDE!” Thomas roared, shoving Mara through the front door and slamming the heavy oak panel shut behind us.
He threw two iron drop-bars into their brackets across the wood just as a hail of heavy caliber rifle fire tore through the porch outside.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The heavy oak door shuddered, thick wooden splinters exploding into the cabin’s entryway. The steel shutters over the windows rattled as bullets flattened against the reinforced iron plating.
Inside, the cabin was warm, lit only by a cast-iron woodstove in the corner.
Noah was sitting up on a small canvas cot near the fire, his yellow blanket wrapped around his small shoulders, his eyes wide with terror as the deafening roar of gunfire echoed through the stone walls.
“MOMMY!” he shrieked, dropping his stuffed rabbit.
I threw myself across the room, sliding across the pine floorboards, and scooped him into my arms. I pulled him down into the narrow gap between the stone stove and the heavy log wall, burying his face into my neck, my body completely covering his small frame.
“I’m here, baby, I’m here! Mommy’s here!” I cried into his soft hair, feeling his tiny heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped engine. “Close your eyes! Keep your eyes closed!”
Thomas was already moving with terrifying, practiced efficiency. He reached under a long wooden workbench, pulled out a heavy metal crate, and flipped the latches open, revealing half a dozen pre-loaded magazines for an AR-15 rifle leaning against the wall.
“Mara! Take the left shutter!” Thomas barked, tossing a short-barreled carbine across the room to my sister. “Do not fire until they reach the perimeter wire! We save ammunition!”
Mara caught the rifle smoothly, racked the bolt, and pressed her face against the narrow view-slot in the steel shutter on the cabin’s west wall.
Outside, the gunfire ceased suddenly.
The sudden silence was far worse than the noise. The rain beat against the stone walls, and the wind howled through the chimney, scattering grey ash across the hearth.
Then a megaphone clicked on from the driveway.
“THOMAS!” Caleb’s voice boomed through the storm, amplified, crystal clear, and completely devoid of emotion. “YOU ARE OUTNUMBERED AND OUTGUNNED! YOU HAVE NO EXTERNAL COMMS! VANCE’S TEAM IS STILL EIGHT MILES AWAY!”
I squeezed Noah tighter, my fingers digging into his small fleece jacket.
“GIVE ME THE BOY, THOMAS!” Caleb shouted. “AND GIVE ME ELISE! YOU CAN WALK AWAY! I HAVE NO INTEREST IN A RETIRED CIA GHOST! I ONLY WANT MY ASSETS!”
Assets.
The word hung in the cold air of the cabin like poison. Six years of marriage. A child. A home in Arlington. To Caleb Morrison—or Vasily Petrov—we were not a family. We were files, credentials, and bargaining chips to be secured or liquidated.
Thomas stood beside the front shutter, his Remington rifle held steady against his shoulder, his thumb resting on the safety switch.
“He’s trying to draw us to the windows,” Thomas whispered to Mara. “He’s got two shooters moving through the tree line on the north side. They’re carrying thermal optics.”
“I have one in my sight,” Mara murmured, her eye glued to the shutter slot. “Fifty yards out. Moving behind the shed.”
“Wait,” Thomas commanded. “Let them reach the porch. They think this is a timber cabin. They don't know the walls are backed by four inches of reinforced ballistics concrete.”
From under my body, Noah pulled his face back from my collar. His eyes were full of tears, but he looked up at me with that incredible, innocent focus only an eight-year-old—no, a three-year-old—could have.
“Mommy,” he whispered, his small voice shaking. “Daddy’s outside? Is Daddy angry?”
My chest caved in. I pulled his face back into my neck, kissing his damp forehead over and over again. “Daddy is... Daddy is sick, baby. But Uncle Thomas and Aunt Mara are going to keep us safe. I promise you. I promise you on my life.”
Outside, the heavy sound of boots crunched on the wet gravel porch steps.
May you like
One step. Two steps.
Thomas didn't look back at us. He simply raised his left hand, counted down three fingers in absolute silence, and then slammed his palm against a heavy red button mounted on the stone wall beside the door frame.
