Chapter 13 - SHATTERED SANCTUARY
Z
Adrenaline is a terrifying chemical. It obliterates fear, replacing it with a cold, hyper-focused survival instinct.
I didn't scream. I didn't run for the front door—I assumed they had someone waiting there, too. I yanked the USB drive from the laptop, shoved it into my bra, and grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet from the stove.
The glass of the back patio door shattered with a muted thwump.
They were inside.
I dropped to the floor and crawled behind the kitchen island. The house was pitch black. The soft crunch of tactical boots on broken glass sounded like thunder.
“Sweep the rooms. Find her. Find the drive,” a deep, gravelly voice ordered.
I held my breath. The kitchen island was only ten feet from the patio door. If they turned the corner, I was dead.
One set of footsteps moved toward the hallway, heading for the bedrooms. The other set moved slowly toward the kitchen. The beam of a tactical flashlight swept across the ceiling, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Thump. Thump.
He was rounding the counter.
I didn't wait to be found. As the flashlight beam swept past the edge of the island, I sprang upward from the floor. I swung the cast-iron skillet with every ounce of strength I possessed, aiming for the dark silhouette holding the gun.
The heavy metal connected with the side of his head with a sickening crunch.
The man grunted, dropping his flashlight and the pistol as he collapsed to the linoleum like a sack of stones.
“Marco?” the gravelly voice called out from the hallway.
I didn't hesitate. I scooped up the dropped, suppressed pistol. I had never fired a gun in my life, but I knew how to pull a trigger.
“Marco, report!” The footsteps in the hall hurried back toward the living room.
I stepped out from behind the island, raising the heavy weapon with both hands. The second man stepped into the kitchen, his gun raised.
I pulled the trigger.
The gun bucked in my hands, a muffled phut sound escaping the silencer. The bullet shattered the tile two inches to his left. I was a terrible shot.
But it was enough to make him dive for cover behind the sofa.
“You’re out of your depth, Mrs. Harper!” the man yelled from the living room. It was the same voice I had imagined reading that blog comment. “Throw the drive out here, and I walk away! You have my word!”
“Like you gave Melissa your word?” I screamed back, backing slowly toward the door that led to the garage.
“She’s alive, isn't she?” he reasoned, his voice calm, chillingly professional. “Daniel didn't have to die. He just wouldn't let it go. Don't make the same mistake. You have a daughter.”
He was moving. I could hear the rustle of his clothing as he flanked the kitchen, trying to get an angle on me.
I reached blindly behind me, my hand finding the cold doorknob of the garage door.
“I’m hitting publish on the blog right now!” I lied, my voice shaking. “The files are uploading! It’s over!”
Silence. A split second of hesitation from the killer.
I threw the door open, lunged into the dark garage, and slammed the heavy fire door shut behind me, hitting the deadbolt.
May you like
I scrambled into the driver’s seat of my car, hit the garage door opener, and threw the engine into reverse. The heavy wooden door between the garage and the kitchen shuddered as he kicked it.
The garage door was only halfway up when I slammed on the gas. The roof of my car scraped violently against the bottom of the door, showering sparks, but I broke through, fishtailing out of the driveway and tearing down the suburban street at seventy miles an hour, the USB drive burning against my skin.
