Chapter 14
Z
I caught Leo’s wrist inches from my neck, the cold steel blade pressing against my skin with terrifying force. He was younger, stronger, and driven by a fanatic desire for revenge, but I had twenty-seven years of street survival and a father’s desperate rage pumping through my veins.
We crashed into the wet grass, rolling through the mud as the fire on the porch roared louder, illuminating the fog in a sickening shade of bright orange.
Leo slammed his elbow hard into my jaw, dazing me for a second, and tried to free his knife hand. “Your daughter dies tonight, old man!” he growled, pressing his forearm against my windpipe.
My vision began to blur, black spots dancing across my eyes as oxygen was cut off from my brain. I reached down with my right hand, drew my off-duty backup revolver from my ankle holster, pressed the barrel directly into Leo’s outer thigh, and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
Leo shrieked in pain as the hollow-point round tore through his leg muscle. His grip on my throat loosened instantly. I slammed my forehead directly into his nose, breaking it with a crunch, rolled on top of him, and drove my fist into his jaw three times until his body went completely limp in the mud.
I scrambled to my feet, gasping for air, and turned toward the burning farmhouse.
Mark was trapped on the upper deck of the porch, surrounded by roaring flames, his clothes caught on fire as he beat frantically at his pant legs. He was screaming in agony, completely terrified by the monster he had helped unleash.
“Help me! Please, Daniel! Help me!” Mark shrieked, his voice cracking.
I didn't care about Mark. I charged straight through the wall of smoke, grabbed the heavy iron garden hose from the side wall, turned the valve to full pressure, and blasted a pathway through the burning doorway.
I kicked open the charred kitchen door. Smoke was filling the lower ceiling in thick, suffocating black clouds.
“Claire!” I coughed, covering my face with my wet jacket sleeve. “Claire!”
“Dad! Down here!” her voice came from the living room.
She wasn't hiding in a closet. She wasn't cowering in fear. Claire was standing near the fireplace, holding two heavy fire extinguishers, blasting chemical foam over the burning curtains and hardwood floor, actively fighting back the blaze to keep the escape route open.
I grabbed the second extinguisher from the hallway wall, pulling the safety pin. Together, side by side, father and daughter fought back the flames until the roaring orange fire turned into thick, white, suffocating steam.
Outside, the air was suddenly filled with the deafening wail of police sirens and fire trucks. Tactical officers flooded the yard, securing the perimeter, throwing heavy blankets over a sobbing, severely burned Mark Cole, and slapping federal detainment cuffs on the unconscious Leo Varga.
Frank Miller ran through the ruined back door, his shotgun lowered, looking around the smoke-filled room in absolute awe.
“Good Lord, Daniel...” Frank breathed, looking at Claire, who stood amidst the foam and soot, holding her fire extinguisher like a shield. “You two built a fortress here.”
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Claire wiped a streak of black soot from her cheek, looked at her hands, then looked up at me. She didn't tear up. She didn't tremble. A small, triumphant smile broke across her face through the smoke.
“I told you, Dad,” she said, her voice strong and clear. “I’m not letting anyone burn down what we built.”
