"How many?"
As if in answer, another sensor trips. Then another.
"At least four. But probably more." He hands me extra magazines. "We defend from here. Overlapping fields of fire. You take the east window, I'll take south. We funnel them into positions where we have the advantage."
I move to the east window, check the angle. Good sightlines through the trees. Clear firing positions. The approaching operators will have to cross open ground to reach the cabin.
Unless they're smart enough to use the terrain.
"Movement," Rhys says quietly. "Three o'clock. Two targets."
I spot them. Two men in tactical gear moving through the trees with trained efficiency. They're using cover well, advancing in bounds, weapons ready.
"Military training," I murmur. "These aren't local thugs."
"No. These are the same kind of operators who were in Whitewater Junction looking for us."
A third figure appears. Then a fourth. They're trying to surround the cabin, establishing a perimeter before they move in.
"They're setting up for a coordinated assault," I say. "Which means they have at least a fifth somewhere calling the shots."
"Probably with more in the vehicles as overwatch." Rhys moves to the gun cabinet, pulls out something that makes me blink. "If they want to play tactical, we'll play tactical."
It's a rifle. Not just any rifle. High-powered, scoped, the kind that can reach out and touch someone at significant distance.
"You plan to start shooting?" I ask.
"They came to my home. To kill us. Yeah, I plan to shoot." His voice is granite. "But I'll give them one chance to leave."
He opens the window, keeps the rifle out of sight, and calls out in a voice that carries.
"This is Sheriff Rhys Blackwater. You're trespassing on private property. Leave now and no one gets hurt."
The response is immediate. Gunfire rips through the window. I duck as bullets punch through wood and glass. Rhys drops flat, rolls away from the opening.
"That's their answer," he says.
"Then let's give them ours."
We return fire. Controlled bursts. Aimed shots. The tactical training kicks in like I never left the Bureau. Identify target. Assess threat. Engage. My rounds catch one operator crossing between trees. He goes down hard.
Rhys drops a second one trying to flank from the south. His shooting is precise. Economical. Every round counts.
But there are more. They keep pushing forward. Trained. Determined.
"We need to move," I say. "They're going to overwhelm this position."
"Back door. On three." Rhys provides covering fire while I sprint for the rear exit. I kick it open, check the approach. Clear.
He's right behind me. We're out and moving through the snow before the attackers can reposition. The tree line is twenty yards away. Bullets kick up snow around our feet.
Something burns across my arm. Just a graze, but it's enough to spin me sideways. Rhys catches me, keeps me upright, doesn't stop moving.
We hit the trees and the cover improves immediately. Dense spruce provides concealment. We put fifty yards between us and the cabin before stopping to assess.
"How bad?" Rhys checks my arm.
"Graze. I'm fine." The adrenaline is already numbing it. "How many did we drop?"
