Chapter 89 - The Ambush at the Glen House
I snatched Lily into my arms and leaped from the truck just as the second SUV came to a screeching halt thirty yards back, its doors flying open to discharge four tactical operators with short-barreled carbines.
Callahan racked his twelve-gauge shotgun and leaned across the hood of his smoking truck, firing two thunderous blasts into the grille of the SUV to buy us precious seconds.
"Run, Claire!" his voice echoed down the long, hollow wooden tunnel of the covered bridge.
I ran.
My lungs burned like liquid fire. My boots hammered across the icy red-painted planks of the bridge floor, the enclosed space amplifying the deafening reports of Callahan's shotgun behind us.
*Boom. Boom.*
Then, a sudden, terrible burst of automatic rifle fire tore through the wooden siding of the bridge, followed by the awful silence of an empty shotgun slide clicking against an empty chamber.
"Callahan!" I screamed, looking back.
Through the gaps in the timbers, I saw Callahan slump against the fender of his truck, his cap knocked into the snow, hands raised as two operatives pushed past him, sprinting straight into the bridge after us.
We burst out of the southern end of the covered bridge into the quiet streets of Jackson. The village was dark, buried under two feet of fresh powder, asleep and oblivious to the war spilling across its manicured lawns.
I turned down an alley beside an old red-brick mill building, my legs shaking with exhaustion. Lily was clinging to me with every ounce of strength she possessed, her cheek pressed against my collarbone, silent tears soaking through my sweater.
"Almost there, baby," I whispered through gasping breaths. "Mom’s got you. Mom’s got you."
We reached the back door of the mill workshop Callahan had mentioned. I tried the heavy iron handle.
Locked.
I threw my shoulder against the solid oak door, but it didn't budge. Panic, cold and sharp, seized my heart.
Footsteps crunched in the fresh snow behind us—slow, measured, deliberate footsteps that carried no urgency, only the absolute confidence of a predator closing in on trapped prey.
I spun around, pressing Lily firmly behind my back against the locked door.
Emerging from the shadow of the covered bridge was not a hired mercenary in tactical gear.
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It was a man in an immaculate, double-breasted cashmere topcoat, carrying no weapon, wearing fine leather gloves. He had our father's sharp, aristocratic jawline, our mother's pale gray eyes, and a terrifyingly calm smile carved into his handsome, unblemished face.
Julian Vance.
