Chapter 5 - The Siege at the House
The rain was coming down in thick, gray sheets by the time my truck pulled into the quiet suburban neighborhood where I had lived for three decades. The street was unnaturally still. The blue sky of the early morning had been completely swallowed by heavy storm clouds.
As I rounded the corner onto my street, my eyes immediately picked up the anomalies.
The unmarked sedans belonging to the two DCIS agents were parked in my driveway, but both driver-side doors were cracked open. A dark, windowless delivery van was idling by the curb two houses down, its exhaust piping white smoke into the cold rain.
I pulled my truck behind the van, blocking it from reversing. Reaching under the back seat of my cab, I unlocked a heavy steel quick-access safe, pulling out my old duty weapon—a custom SIG Sauer P226 that had been meticulously maintained and cleaned every weekend since my retirement.
I racked the slide, chambered a round, and slipped the weapon into my jacket pocket.
Moving low through the thick bushes along my side fence, I approached the perimeter of my house. The rear patio glass door was shattered, the heavy curtains flapping wildly in the rain-chilled wind.
Inside, I heard the sharp sound of furniture being overturned, followed by a harsh, foreign-accented voice barking commands.
"Find the drive! The kid said she hid the hard drive in the house! Search the bedrooms!"
I slipped through the broken patio door, stepping silently onto the thick wool rug of the family room. The scent of ozone, rain, and raw gunpowder hung heavy in the air.
Lying near the kitchen counter was one of the DCIS agents, unconscious but breathing, a deep bruise swelling on his temple where he had been struck with a blunt object. The second agent was pinned behind the kitchen island, clutching a shoulder wound, his weapon lying five feet away on the hardwood floor.
Standing near the hallway were two men in dark, non-descript tactical gear, holding suppressed submachine guns. They were pros—cold, methodical, and entirely focused on finding the physical evidence Emma had preserved.
And sitting on the floor in the corner of the hallway, her cast pulled tight against her chest, was Emma. One of the men was standing over her, holding a heavy tactical knife near her throat.
"Where is the secondary backup drive, girl?" the man holding the knife asked, his voice low and guttural. "Tell me, or I start cutting."
Emma looked up, her eyes wide with terror, but her mouth locked tight. She looked past the man’s shoulder and caught my eye through the kitchen doorway.
I raised one finger to my lips, signaling her to stay silent.
I didn't call out. I didn't give a dramatic warning.
I stepped out from behind the kitchen wall, raised my SIG Sauer, and fired three rapid, suppressed shots.
The first shot hit the man holding the knife square in the shoulder, knocking him backward against the hallway mirror. The second and third shots struck the second gunman in the center chest armor, the kinetic force slamming him into the doorframe and dropping him to his knees, his weapon clattering across the floor.
Before the first gunman could recover, I closed the distance, stepping on his wrist, pinning his arm to the floor, and kicking his tactical knife away into the living room.
I pressed the warm barrel of my gun against his forehead.
"Move," I said softly, "and you won't survive to see trial."
The gunman froze, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide with sudden, terrifying shock as he realized he had been completely dismantled by an old man in a flannel shirt.
"Dad!" Emma cried out, scrambling across the floor toward me, collapsing against my legs.
"Are you hurt, Emma? Did they touch you?" I asked, keeping my gun locked on the intruder while using my left hand to check her face and shoulders.
"I'm... I'm okay," she sobbed, holding onto my coat. "They broke in two minutes ago... they were looking for the master encryption key!"
Out in the driveway, heavy tires screeched to a halt, followed by the thunderous sound of multiple tactical boots hitting the pavement.
"Federal agents! Clear the house!" Colonel Marcus Vance’s voice bellowed through the front door as a team of fully armored FBI Hostage Rescue Team operators flooded into the hallway, weapons raised.
They swept the rooms in five seconds, securing the two injured gunmen and immediately calling for medical units to treat the wounded DCIS agent.
Marcus walked into the hallway, looking at the two neutralized mercenaries on the floor, then at me, standing straight with my weapon held at low ready.
"Arthur," Marcus said, letting out a long, heavy breath as he lowered his rifle. "You really need to leave some work for the active-duty guys."
"They came into my house, Marcus," I said, safely decocking my weapon and holstering it inside my jacket. "And they pointed a blade at my daughter."
Marcus looked down at the captured mercenary, then turned to his tactical captain. "Get these two into secure military transport. No public booking. Transfer them straight to the brig at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. I want their communications logs traced back to the minute they received the wire transfer."
He then looked at me, his expression turning deeply serious.
"Grant Vale didn't just order this hit from jail, Arthur," Marcus revealed quietly. "We just intercepted an encrypted radio burst from a private jet sitting on the tarmac at Executive Regional Airport. Conrad Vale’s bail was posted thirty minutes ago by an offshore proxy. He’s trying to flee the country right now."
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I looked at Emma, then back at Marcus.
"Then let's go stop a plane," I said.
