Chapter 8 - The Assault on Estes Park
I didn't argue. I sprinted into the living room, grabbing Emma under one arm and pulling Rachel by her wrist toward the hidden basement door disguised as a pantry cabinet in the hallway.
"David! What's happening?!" Rachel screamed over the deafening roar of automatic gunfire echoing outside the cabin windows.
"Nancy hired mercenaries!" I yelled, shoving open the heavy steel door of the panic room. "Get inside! Both of you!"
The panic room was a ten-by-ten concrete bunker reinforced with Kevlar lining, equipped with an independent air filtration unit, water supplies, and a closed-circuit monitor showing the perimeter cameras.
"Daddy, I'm scared!" Emma cried, clinging to her mother’s dress.
"Stay here, sweetie! Do not open this door for anyone unless you hear my voice!" I pulled the heavy steel door shut, turning the mechanical wheel until the deadbolts locked into place from the inside.
I turned around, holding the iron tire iron I had brought from the truck.
In the hallway above, a heavy explosion rocked the cabin. The drywall cracked; dust and insulation rained down from the ceiling joists.
I crept up the basement stairs, keeping low. The smell of cordite and burnt gunpowder filled the air.
Through the shattered front window of the living room, I saw two men dressed in black tactical gear advancing across the lawn, firing suppressed rifles into the cabin. Agent Vance lay near the kitchen counter, holding his leg, which was bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound.
"David..." Vance gasped, pressing a tactical dressing against his thigh. "They... they hit us with a flashbang... my troopers are down..."
I dropped to my knees beside him, grabbing his discarded sidearm from the floor—a sleek Glock 19. "How many are there?"
"Three... three shooters..." Vance panted, his face pale from blood loss. "They aren't here to capture anyone, David... they were hired to wipe us out..."
A shadow fell over the shattered front doorway.
A tall, heavily built man in a black tactical vest stepped into the living room, raising his rifle to clear the corner.
I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I brought the Glock up, aligning the front sight with the center of the man’s chest, and pulled the trigger twice.
BANG! BANG!
The heavy 9mm rounds hit the shooter’s armor plates. He stumbled backward with a grunt, his rifle discharging into the ceiling.
Before he could recover, I leaped forward, driving my weight into his torso. We crashed onto the broken glass of the entryway floor. I jammed the muzzle of the pistol under his tactical helmet and pulled the trigger a third time.
The gunman went limp.
I scrambled up, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Outside, the sound of an approaching vehicle roared through the trees—a black heavy-duty pickup truck with reinforced steel bumpers.
The driver’s side door opened.
Out stepped Nancy.
She wore a dark leather jacket, her face pale and lined with soot stains from the fire at Aspen Ridge, her hand resting on the grip of a silver revolver.
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She looked across the bloodied lawn at the cabin, her eyes cold, unyielding, and utterly insane.
"David!" she called out, her voice carrying over the idling diesel engine. "Bring me my granddaughter! Bring her out now, and I will let you and Rachel die quickly!"
