At 2 A.M., My Father Texted: “Grab Your Sister And Run — Don’t Trust Your Mother.” So I Did.

The tear gas hit my eyes and throat like molten lava.

I fell to my knees, coughing violently, my eyes burning so intensely I couldn't keep them open. Beside me, Becca was screaming, choking on the thick, chemically sweet fog that rapidly filled the small cabin.

"Becca! Crawl!" I wheezed, grabbing the back of her sweater and pulling her toward the floor where the air was slightly clearer.

Gunfire erupted inside the small room—deafening booms that felt like physical blows against my ear drums. Dad was firing blind through the broken window frame, the flash of his pistol illuminating the swirling white smoke in strobe-like bursts.

Return fire tore through the thin wooden walls. Splinters of pine exploded into the air. Bullets thumped into the log structure, tearing through dry-wall, shattering clay mugs on the counter, and thumping into the furniture.

"Zoe! Get under the table!" Dad roared through a coughing fit, dropping his empty magazine and fumbling in his pocket for a reload.

I didn't listen to him. I couldn't. I dragged Becca toward the hearth of the cast-iron wood stove in the corner. Heavy iron tools lay scattered on the stone hearth—a poker, an ash shovel, and an iron wedge used for splitting firewood.

I grabbed the heavy iron poker, my fingers locking around the cold metal.

The front door kicked inward with a tremendous crack, the wooden latch snapping like a dry twig. Through the billowing clouds of white tear gas, a heavily armored figure stepped across the threshold, holding a short-barreled shotgun.

Dad spun around, raising his pistol.

BOOM.

The shotgun blast echoed like thunder. Dad was thrown backward against the table, his pistol flying from his hand, bouncing across the floor and landing near my feet. He hit the wood floor hard, clutching his right shoulder, groaning in agony as blood pooling beneath him.

The armed man stepped forward, pointing the shotgun down at Dad’s chest.

"Don't," a voice commanded from the doorway.

Mom walked into the cabin.

She wore a dark coat, her hair pulled back, a simple black pistol held loosely at her side. She didn't look like a real estate agent. She didn't look like a mother. She looked like an executioner.

She stepped through the white smoke, her eyes sweeping over the wrecked room until they landed on Dad, who was writhing on the floor, gasping for air.

"You always were an amateur, Kevin," Mom said softly, stepping over his spilled blood to reach the wooden table. She picked up the silver hard drive, slipping it into her coat pocket without even looking at it. Then she reached down and picked up the duffel bag full of cash.

"Mom..." Becca sobbed from behind the iron stove, her face covered in soot and tears. "Mom, please don't shoot Dad..."

Mom stopped. Her gaze shifted slowly toward the corner, finding Becca and me.

For a second—just a fraction of a second—her cold, ruthless composure wavered. A look of profound, terrible sorrow passed over her face as she looked at her daughters cowering in the gas-filled room.

"Becca," Mom said, her voice dropping into the soft, soothing tone she used when we were sick as children. "Zoe. Come here. It’s over now."

I stood up slowly, stepping out from behind the stove. I kept my hands at my sides, my right hand holding the iron fire poker behind my thigh.

"Is it?" I asked, my voice hoarse from the gas. "Are you going to let us go, Mom? Or are we 'loose ends' too?"

Mom took a step toward us, her hand reaching out. "I never wanted you involved in this. Everything I did—the money, the properties—it was to build a life for us where no one could ever touch us. Your father ruined that."

"You came here to kill him," I said, eyeing the pistol in her hand.

"He was going to trade you to the cartel to save his own skin!" Mom spat, her eyes flashing with genuine rage. "Do you think he brought you along because he loves you? He brought you as body shields! He knew I wouldn't open fire if I thought you were in the car!"

I looked at Dad, who was groaning on the floor, clutching his bleeding shoulder. Then I looked back at Mom.

They were both monsters. Two corrupt, greedy, terrifying predators who had spent my entire life using my sister and me as props in their sick, twisted game of domestic pretend.

"You're both the same," I said quietly.

Mom blinked, hurt flashing across her features before hard steel replaced it again. "Zoe, hand me your sister. We are leaving. My men will burn this cabin to the ground."

"And Dad?" Becca wept.

"Your father dies in the fire," Mom said coldly. "It’s the only way the cartel believes the ledger is destroyed."

She stepped forward, reaching out to grab Becca’s arm.