Chapter 8 - The Ambush in the Driveway
"Hannah, behind me, right now!" I snapped, my voice instantly snapping into tactical command mode.
I unholstered my military-issued sidearm, racking the slide with a crisp, lethal *clack*. Torres and his partner drew their service weapons, fanning out toward the cellar stairs.
Through the floorboards above, heavy boots crunched across broken glass in the living room. These weren't federal agents. Feds announced themselves. These men moved with the quiet, practiced rhythm of trained private contractors.
"Two targets on the ground floor," Torres whispered, gesturing with two fingers. "Suppressed weapons."
"Mercer’s fixers," I whispered back. "They came for the ledger."
I grabbed Hannah's arm, pulling her toward the old coal chute at the back of the foundation. "Hannah, crawl up this chute. When you get to the yard, run straight to the military Humvee and stay on the floorboard. Do not look back. Understand?"
"Becca, no! I’m not leaving you!" she sobbed, tears spilling over her cheeks.
"I survived three roadside ambushes in Kandahar, Hannah. These cowards are nothing. Move!"
I boosted her up the chute. She scrambled through the iron grate into the dark backyard.
A split-second later, a flash-bang grenade bounced down the wooden cellar stairs.
"Cover!" Torres roared.
*BANG!*
A blinding flash of white light and a concussive shockwave slammed through the basement, ringing in my ears like a church bell. Smoke billowed into the damp room.
A shadowy figure descended the stairs, an assault rifle raised, spraying suppressive fire into the canning shelves. Glass jars exploded into crimson red syrup and shards.
Torres returned fire from behind a concrete pillar. The intruder grunted, falling backward up the stairs.
I didn't wait. I vaulted over the smashed preserves, closing the distance in two strides. As a second gunman leaned around the doorframe at the top of the stairs, I fired twice through the wooden riser beneath his feet.
The bullets punched clean through the pine boards. The second man screamed, tumbling down the flight of stairs, dropping his weapon.
I kicked the rifle away, pressing the muzzle of my sidearm firmly against the hollow of his throat. He wore unmarked black tactical gear, Kevlar, and an earpiece.
"Who sent you?" I demanded, my voice trembling with controlled fury.
May you like
The man spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at me. "The... the trust fund. It's already been sold... to the Vance-Cross Syndicate. You're dead, Sergeant. You and your sister are already dead."
***