Chapter 7
The darkness was absolute, thick with the acrid stench of pulverized drywall, burning insulation, and ancient wood dust. The explosion had violently rocked the foundation, sending a shockwave that vibrated through the floorboards and into the soles of Everett’s shoes. He didn’t hesitate. In the immediate fraction of a second after the lights died, Everett threw his entire body weight backward, tackling Maren and Bennett to the floor, sheltering them beneath his frame. The heavy oak coffee table crashed onto its side, providing a meager barrier between his family and the traitor standing across the room.
"Stay down. Do not make a sound," Everett breathed directly into Maren’s ear. He could feel Bennett trembling uncontrollably against his chest, the young boy’s hands gripping his shirt with terrified, white-knuckled desperation.
From the other side of the room, the distinct, metallic ratcheting of the handgun being cocked cut through the ringing in Everett's ears. It was a terrifyingly precise sound. Richard Vance, the man who had attended their family dinners, the man who had recommended this exact safe house, let out a slow, calculated sigh.
"I really did try to make this painless, Everett," Vance’s voice floated through the suffocating blackness. It sounded distorted, bouncing off the ruined walls. "If you had just taken the initial buyout, if you had just walked away when the trust was contested, you and your beautiful family could have lived a very long, very comfortable life in ignorance. But you had to keep digging. You had to bring Sloane Avery into the fold."
"Those police cruisers outside," Sloane’s voice echoed from a different corner of the room. She had moved instantly when the lights went out, a seasoned professional reacting to an ambush. "They aren't local law enforcement, are they, Richard? You bought mercenaries and dressed them up to keep the neighbors away."
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"Very astute, Sloane," Vance replied calmly, his footsteps crunching softly on the broken glass covering the living room floor. "The local sheriff was told this was a federal training exercise. We have a five-mile perimeter and absolute privacy. Now, slide the hard drive across the floor, and I will let the boy live. That is my final offer."
Everett’s heart hammered against his ribs. He knew Vance was lying. There were no survivors when millions of dollars and a global syndicate were at stake. Everett slowly reached into his jacket, his fingers wrapping around the cold steel of a heavy brass paperweight he had absentmindedly slipped into his pocket earlier that evening. It wasn't a gun, but in the pitch black, it was the only weapon he had.
