Chapter 7 - The Panic Room
The panic room was hidden behind a false panel in the master bedroom closet upstairs. It was a cold, windowless space lined with reinforced steel, equipped with a bank of security monitors, a small cot, and a shelf of emergency supplies.
I slammed the heavy steel door shut, turning the massive brass wheel until the deadbolts clicked into place. The deafening sound of the alarm was instantly muffled, replaced by the steady, rhythmic hum of the room’s independent ventilation system.
On the security monitors, I could see the chaos unfolding outside.
The woods were alive with flashing muzzle flares. Viktor and his guards were firing from the porch, their bullets cutting through the dark pine trees. Two men in tactical gear fell into the snow, but more were advancing, their heavy-caliber rifles tearing chunks of wood from the cabin’s rustic exterior.
David was in the living room below us, firing through a reinforced window pane with surgical precision. Every time his weapon fired, an attacker fell. But his face on the monitor didn't look angry; it looked completely, terrifyingly calm—the face of a man who had accepted his fate long before the first shot was fired.
"Clara..." Leo whispered from the cot, his small body shaking as he clutched Humphrey to his chest. "Are they going to hurt Daddy?"
I sat beside him, pulling him into my lap, my eyes fixed on the monitor where David was currently ducking behind the stone fireplace as a hail of bullets shattered the kitchen windows.
"No, Leo," I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking. "Your dad is a superhero. Remember? He’s stronger than all of them."
Suddenly, the monitor displaying the backyard went dark. Then the kitchen monitor.
One by one, the cameras were being systematically shot out by the attackers.
The last working screen showed the hallway directly outside our panic room door. A shadow fell across the wooden floorboards, followed by the heavy, deliberate footsteps of a man walking toward our hiding place.
He stopped in front of the closet door.
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In his hand was a heavy, silver-plated revolver.
It was Nikolai Volkov.
