Chapter 8 - The Shadow at the Window
Thirty minutes passed.
The static on the tablet refused to clear.
Frank stood by the living room window, his radio pressed to his ear, trying desperately to re-establish contact with the assault team at the estate.
"Static," Frank muttered, cursing under his breath. "The mountain repeater must be down."
"Is he okay?" I asked, standing up from the armchair, the small silver gun tucked into the pocket of my oversized sweater. "Frank, is Aleandro alive?"
"Don Duca is fine, Miss Carter," Frank said, though his eyes darted nervously toward the tree line outside the window. "He’s... wait."
Frank froze.
He raised his hand, signaling for me to be quiet.
Outside, the birds in the pine trees had suddenly stopped singing.
The forest was dead silent.
"Frank?" I whispered.
"Get behind the counter, Miss Carter," Frank ordered, pulling two heavy pistols from his shoulder holsters. "Now!"
Before I could move, the glass of the large bay window shattered inward with a deafening CRASH!
A flashbang grenade bounced across the hardwood floor, exploding in a blinding burst of white light and a roaring bang that threw me off my feet.
My ears rang violently. My vision turned into a dizzying smear of white and gray.
I fell behind the kitchen counter, my hands covering my ears as heavy gunfire erupted inside the cabin. Shouts in Russian echoed through the smoke, followed by the heavy thump of falling bodies.
Frank was roaring, firing his pistols into the smoke until his magazines ran dry.
"Clear the cabin!" a harsh voice yelled in thick, heavily accented English. "The boss wants the girl alive! Marco’s backup crew is here!"
Terror—pure, primitive, suffocating terror—flooded my veins.
Marco had sent a secondary squad to the safehouse as a contingency plan.
I scrambled on my knees through the broken glass on the floor, my hand reaching into my sweater pocket.
My fingers wrapped around the engraved silver handle of the Walther PPK.
A pair of heavy tactical boots appeared around the edge of the kitchen counter.
A large, scarred man in a black mask stepped into the kitchen, his automatic rifle pointed down at me. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw me sitting in the debris, but his mouth twisted into an ugly, cruel sneer.
"Found you, little bird," he growled, reaching out with a heavy gloved hand to grab my hair.
I didn't think.
I didn't hesitate.
I remembered Aleandro’s voice in my ear: Safety here. Shoot them in the chest.
I lifted the small silver gun, aimed straight at his chest, and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The recoil knocked my hand back.
The man gasped, a look of utter shock washing over his eyes as he stumbled backward, clutching his bloodied chest, before collapsing heavily onto the floorboards.
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I sat there in the smoke, gasping for air, the gun smoking in my trembling hand.
Then, a tall shadow stepped through the broken front door.
