“Let’s go upstairs,” I tell them, rushing toward the front of the house.
As Mom starts to get up, the back door slams open, the sound exploding through the house like a gunshot.
Fuck!
“Mom, go,” I whisper sharply.
But the words barely leave my mouth before two masked men burst into view, dressed head to toe in black, guns raised and pointed straight at us.
“Don’t move!” one of them barks, attention rooted on me and Dad, unaware that Mom is still partway up the stairs.
She goes rigid, trembling, trapped between running and freezing. Dad steps in front of me without hesitation, lifting the gun with both hands. I witness the tremor in his fingers, the fear he’s fighting to swallow down.
“You want to play, old man?” the guy on the left jeers. “I’ll put a bullet in the girl before you even get a shot off.”
A muscle in my father’s jaw trembles.
“Dad,” I whisper. “Please lower it. They’ll kill us.”
He doesn’t look at me, but something in his shoulders flinches.
“What the hell do you want?” he demands, his grip still white-knuckled on the gun.
“We just want the girl.” The man gestures at me with a lazy flick of his weapon. “She comes with us and everyone lives. Even her. It’s that easy.”
My father’s voice drops to a growl. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
The man snickers, like he finds my father pathetic. “That can be arranged.”
My mother lets out a soft, broken whimper, while I can barely breathe. Every instinct in me screams to run, to get them both out of here, but there’s nowhere to go and no time to think.
“What do you want with me?” I step up beside my father, lifting my chin, refusing to give them the satisfaction of fear. “Who sent you?”
“You don’t get to ask questions.” His eyes flash behind the mask. “You do what I say, or every person in this room dies.”
“No.” I shake my head slowly, retreating a step. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He raises his gun higher and begins to advance, each step purposeful, the room shrinking with every inch he closes in. “Then I start pulling my trigger.”
He reaches me in two strides, his hand clamping around my arm. The other man keeps his gun trained on us, unmoving, waiting for the moment things go violent.
“Don’t touch her!” The sound that leaves my father isn’t fear—it’s fury.
He lunges forward, trying to shield me. But the bastard swings the butt of his gun and cracks it against Dad’s skull. Mom screams as he brings the weapon down again. Blood spills across Dad’s forehead, running down his temple, and something hot and vicious ignites in my chest.
“Stay down,” the man snarls. “Or I kill you and your wife right now.”
Dad collapses to the floor, the gun slipping from his hand. For one horrifying second, I think he’s gone. The room tilts, panic clawing up my throat as the men drag me toward the back of the house.
But when I look over, I see it: one of Dad’s eyes cracking open, a faint flicker of movement as his fingers inch toward his fallen gun.
He’s alive.
Relief washes over me. If he can get a shot off at the one not holding me, fast enough to make the other turn for even a split second, I might have a chance to grab his weapon and fight back.
It’s all I’ve got. A desperate, razor-thin hope. And Dad has no idea what I’m trying to do.
A sharp pop shatters the room.
