Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
We stop short of the living room instead of the kitchen, the hallway opening toward the front of the house where a low window faces the side yard. The curtains are tied back and a shadow moves past.
Cole positions me at the bend of the hallway where the wall angles just enough to shield me from a direct line of sight into the living room. From here, I can see part of the couch and the edge of the coffee table, but nothing of the front of the living room. “Stay,” he says, and I do.
Cole steps forward and slightly to the side, not centered in the opening but offset, eliminating the straight-line view from the window to where he stands.
“Whatever happens,” he murmurs, his voice barely stirring the air between us, “do not run unless I tell you to.”
I nod because I can’t seem to form words.
For a few seconds it’s utterly silent, mostly because I’m holding my breath.
Then I hear it. A faint, deliberate scrape. Metal against glass.
It’s not going to be an explosive breach but rather they’re counting on me being sound asleep, and they’re going to cut through the window.
The sound is methodical, patient, and far more terrifying because of it. I grip the corner of the wall until my fingers ache, willing myself not to move, not to breathe too loudly.
The scraping stops.
There’s a muted pop and I can’t help myself. I peek around the corner to see a dark shape rise against the window. A hand sneaks through a round hole, efficiently releases the latch. The window slides upward silently and the man comes through, swinging one leg over the sill and dropping inside in a crouch. He wears dark clothing that absorbs the dim light, his face covered in a black mask. His movements are practiced and economical, weapon already drawn as he scans the room.
He’s a professional, same as Cole, but his mistake is in thinking he’s entering an unprotected home.
He doesn’t see Cole.
The intruder straightens just enough to clear his first angle, and that’s when Cole fires.
The sound detonates inside the bungalow and it’s not subtle. It is an explosion in a confined space that slams into my chest and rattles my teeth. The muzzle flash blooms like a sudden sunrise, blinding me for a split second.
I clap my hand over my mouth to stop my scream.
The man’s body snaps backward, his weapon flying from his grip as he collapses onto the hardwood floor. The impact is heavy and final, and he doesn’t move. I have no clue where the bullet landed but he’s not a threat anymore.
I’m frozen in place but Cole is already shifting his stance, pivoting toward the rear of the house.
Outside, there’s movement—faster now, less cautious. They heard the gunshot and they know that I’m not just peacefully waiting to get taken.
The back door explodes inward with a crack of splintering wood that tears my scream free. The force of it sends the door slamming against the interior wall as a second figure surges through the frame, weapon up, committing fully to the entry.
Cole fires before the intruder can orient.
The shots thunder through the house again—one, two, three—each one controlled but devastatingly loud. The recoil pulses through Cole’s arms, but his stance doesn’t waver. The rounds land high and center, driving the man backward as his forward momentum stalls mid-step. He tumbles onto the porch outside, his weapon clattering across the boards before disappearing from view.
The sudden silence afterward is so oppressive, I wonder if my eardrums have been blown. The air smells like burned metal and I’m still pressing my hand over my mouth, terrified that if I remove it, I’ll make a sound that shatters whatever fragile control Cole has over this moment.
He holds his position at the edge of the hallway, weapon trained on the open doorway, waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Somewhere outside, in the dark beyond the broken door, the rest of them are deciding what to do next. I can hear again… my own ragged breathing and now a faint ringing in my ears.
Cole shifts toward the edge of the kitchen doorway, weapon angled toward the yard. His posture changes subtly—lower, coiled, ready.
Seconds stretch thin and my mind spins. I feel like I’m about ready to splinter into a million pieces.
Are they coming?
Or retreating?
And how is Cole so calm?
I wait for the answers, but then they’re driven from my thoughts. Blinding white light floods through the shattered back door and the kitchen window simultaneously, so bright I have to shield my eyes. The yard beyond erupts into harsh illumination, shadows fleeing beneath hedges and across the fence line.
An engine roars and tires squeal.
“Jameson,” Cole mutters, relief threading briefly through the tension.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know they had someone close. All of this went down in a matter of seconds and they’re here.