Chapter 17 - Blood on the Pine
The rain swallowed the sound of my footsteps as I moved through the tree line, circling around the perimeter of the lake house.
The entire house was dark. No interior lights. No porch sconces. It stood like a hollow wooden tomb against the crashing waves of the lake.
Suddenly, a flashlight beam flickered in the second-floor nursery window.
A figure crossed behind the glass—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing dark tactical gear.
My blood turned to molten lava. I bypassed the front door, knowing it would be watched, and crept onto the rear screened porch. The mesh door had been sliced open with a razor knife.
I eased inside, slipping through the broken French doors that Marcus had inspected the night before. The smell of copper and spent gun smoke hung heavy in the kitchen air.
On the kitchen floor lay the night nanny, bound and gagged with zip-ties, unconscious but breathing shallowly.
I crept past her, stepping onto the stairs, keeping my weight against the outer wall where the oak steps wouldn't creak. Each second stretched into eternity. My heart beat so hard in my ears I could barely hear the rain pounding against the roof shingles.
At the top of the landing, the master bedroom door clicked shut.
I moved silently down the corridor toward Ava’s room.
The door was slightly open. I peered through the crack.
Ava wasn't in her bed. The sheets were thrown back. Her stuffed rabbit lay discarded on the floorboards, soaked in an overturned glass of water.
A cold hand gripped my spine.
Then, behind me, the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed firmly against the base of my skull.
“Drop the scattergun, David,” a flat, professional voice rasped in the dark. “Or I paint the ceiling with your thoughts.”
I froze, feeling the hard steel bite into my flesh.
“Where are my children?” I whispered through gritted teeth.
“Safe. For now. Depending on how quietly you cooperate.” The man reached around with a gloved hand to seize my shotgun.
The second his fingers wrapped around the barrel, I made my move.
I threw my head back, slamming the hard bone of my skull into his face.
A sickening crunch of cartilage echoed in the narrow hallway. The man grunted in agony, stumbling back, his pistol discharging into the floorboards with an ear-splitting bang.
Before he could recover, I spun around, driving the stock of the shotgun violently into his midsection. He wheezed, dropping to one knee. I brought the heavy steel barrel down across his collarbone with everything I had.
He collapsed against the wall, groaning, his pistol skittering across the floor into the shadows.
I pinned his throat to the floor with my boot, cocking the shotgun and aiming it straight between his eyes. “WHERE ARE MY KIDS?!”
The man spat blood onto the floorboards, coughing through broken teeth. He wasn't a local crook. His face was cold, scarred, dead-eyed.
“You’re too late, Miller,” he choked out with a bloody sneer. “I was just the cleanup crew. The decoy.”
“Who took them?!”
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The man smiled, blood coating his teeth. “Look at your phone, daddy.”
***
