Chapter 12 - The Siege of Blackwood Ranch
Z
I didn't flinch when the red laser dot rested against my chest. Instead, I killed the main circuit breaker with a swift pull of the lever behind the kitchen pantry, plunging the entire timber house into pitch-black darkness.
"Elena! Get Julian into the reinforced storm cellar under the pantry now!" I ordered, my voice dead, low, and commanding.
Elena didn't ask questions. Months of trauma recovery hadn't erased her survival instincts; she grabbed Julian from his bed, covering his mouth softly with her hand, and disappeared down the heavy steel trapdoor beneath the floorboards. I locked the deadbolt from the outside and pulled the heavy oak dining table over the door.
A loud, sharp CRACK echoed through the night air as a high-caliber round shattered the high double-paned glass of the living room, showering the hardwood floor in sharp crystals.
I crouched low, sliding behind the stone fireplace hearth, pulling a tactical shotgun from the concealed wall gun safe I had installed during the home's renovation. David’s voice crackled through my encrypted earpiece.
"Julian! We’ve got three armed hostiles advancing from the north tree line! They’re wearing winter camo and night vision!" David reported from his lookout position in the upper barn loft five hundred yards away.
"Marcus hired professionals," I muttered, racking a shell into the chamber. "He spent his last Panama dollars on a hit squad."
"I'm taking the perimeter shooter out now," David said. A muffled THUD of a suppressed rifle echoed from the barn, followed instantly by the red laser dot winking out on the wall behind me.
"One down," David confirmed. "Two hostiles approaching your back porch!"
I moved through the pitch-black hallway like a shadow. Five years of working heavy machinery in Saudi sandstorms had trained my senses to operate in extreme conditions. I knew every squeak of the floorboards, every angle of the doors.
The back kitchen door burst open under a heavy kick. Two tall figures clad in dark tactical gear stepped into the room, their suppressed submachine guns raised, sweeping the dark space with high-intensity flashlights.
"Search the bedrooms! Find the kid!" one of them hissed in a low foreign accent.
I stepped out from behind the heavy oak pantry door right behind the rear intruder. Before he could react, I slammed the heavy steel butt of the shotgun into his jaw, dropping him to his knees, and swept his legs out from under him. The second man spun around, raising his weapon, but I slammed the oak pantry door hard into his arm, forcing his rifle barrel toward the ceiling as a burst of suppressed fire chewed into the wooden beams above.
I grabbed his tactical vest, drove my shoulder into his chest, and slammed him against the granite kitchen island. He dropped his weapon, groaning in agony as I pinned his wrist, twisting it until the joint popped sharply.
"Who paid you?!" I growled, my knee planted firmly on his ribs.
"Vance... Vance is in the gray SUV at the main gate!" the man choked out, gasping for air. "He has a remote detonator! He rigged your propane tanks!"
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My eyes widened in sheer horror. The two-thousand-gallon main propane tank sat right next to the east wing of the house.
I didn't hesitate. I knocked the man cold with a heavy fist, grabbed his dropped sidearm, and sprinted through the front door into the freezing, snow-covered night.
