Chapter 59
The safehouse descended into absolute, terrifying chaos. The blinding after-effects of the flashbang left Nathan reeling, but his survival instinct, honed by years of violently protecting his family, took over immediately. He blindly reached under the coffee table, grabbing the heavy, loaded shotgun Michael had staged there earlier that evening.
Three heavily armed mercenaries swept into the living room, their tactical rifles raised, laser sights cutting brightly through the lingering smoke.
Sarah Collins was the first to recover. Rolling out from behind a heavy armchair, she drew her FBI sidearm and fired three rapid, precise shots. The lead mercenary took a round to the shoulder, stumbling backward into the doorframe, disrupting the squad's deadly formation.
"Move to the kitchen!" Michael yelled, providing covering fire with his own pistol as he physically dragged Emily toward the hallway.
Nathan stood up, racking the shotgun with a terrifying, metallic clack. He didn't aim for the men; he aimed for the structural support beam near the front door. He pulled the trigger. The heavy buckshot shredded the wooden beam, bringing a massive section of the ceiling crashing down between the mercenaries and the retreating family, creating a vital, dusty barricade.
"Go, Claire, go!" Nathan shoved his wife toward the kitchen, covering their retreat.
In the narrow kitchen, Ethan had already popped the heavy iron grate covering the emergency cellar door. "Down here! It leads to an old root cellar with an external storm hatch!"
Emily scrambled down the wooden ladder, followed quickly by Claire and Ethan. Michael remained at the top, reloading his weapon, his eyes locked on the hallway where the mercenaries were clearing the debris.
"Sarah, Nathan, we are out of time!" Michael shouted over the deafening roar of automatic gunfire shredding the living room walls.
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Sarah backed into the kitchen, laying down a suppressing fire that forced the attackers to seek cover. Nathan was the last one in, sliding across the linoleum floor as bullets chewed up the cabinetry above his head. They dove into the dark cellar, pulling the heavy iron grate shut and throwing the deadbolt just as a mercenary breached the kitchen.
The dark, damp root cellar offered momentary safety, but they could hear the heavy thud of boots directly above them, searching for the breach. The battle wasn't over, but they had survived the initial, brutal ambush.
