Chapter 8 - Darkness and Lasers
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The sudden silence in the library was absolute, punctuated only by the soft rain tapping against the tall bay windows.
Uncle Nate pulled a high-powered tactical flashlight from his desk drawer, illuminating the room with a sharp white beam.
“The backup generator should have kicked in instantly,” Nate whispered, his hand drifting toward the desk drawer where he kept a handgun. “Someone cut the main line.”
Marjorie looked down at her cell phone. “Cell service just dropped completely. They’re using a high-grade military signal jammer.”
My phone screen glowed faintly in the dark. Unlike the others, my device received a short, encrypted satellite text message that managed to bypass the local jammer:
Run, Emily. Preston found out about Marjorie’s federal contacts. He isn't waiting for courts anymore. He sent his private security team to the estate. He’s going to eliminate everyone.
The text was signed: Savannah.
Savannah had finally realized the terrifying truth. She wasn't Preston’s partner in a glamorous new life; she was an accomplice who knew too much. By helping him orchestrate the hospital plot, she had become a loose end that Preston intended to snip.
A sharp, high-pitched whistling noise echoed from the front lawn.
Through the sheer curtains of the library window, three distinct, crimson laser dots appeared, dancing slowly across the antique carpet and leather armchairs.
“Get down!” Uncle Nate roared.
He grabbed my arm, pulling me down behind his heavy, solid oak desk just as the front double doors exploded inward with a deafening blast.
The concussive force of the breaching charge shook the floorboards, sending a cloud of plaster, shattered wood, and thick smoke rolling into the foyer.
Marjorie hit the floor beside us, her expression grim but entirely calm. Reaching down to her ankle, she unholstered a compact snub-nosed revolver—a weapon she handled with practiced ease.
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Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed across the marble entryway. These were not common street criminals; these were Preston’s high-priced mercenaries, trained professionals equipped with night-vision gear and suppressed firearms.
“Clear the ground floor,” a harsh, synthesized voice commanded over a tactical radio. “Target is the pregnant female. Eliminate all witnesses.”
