I peer through the gap in the curtain. I see movement in the treeline. Two figures, combat gear, suppressed weapons. They're staging for the breach.
7
SELA
Marc shifts. Not the careful, deliberate movements I've seen for the past few hours. This is different. Predatory. Something lethal unleashed.
Interior lights die. Darkness swallows us so completely I can't see my own hands.
"Bedroom," he says, voice low. "Away from windows. If they breach, you hold position and don't fire unless you have a clear shot. Understand?"
"Understood."
I move through the blackness, palm trailing the wall for guidance. My heart hammers but breathing stays controlled. Training kicks in. The same calm that settles over me when someone codes on my table. Adrenaline sharpens everything instead of scattering it.
I reach the bedroom and drop to a crouch beside the bed, away from the window. The Glock is out, finger along the frame, not the trigger. Range training kicking in. Sight picture. Breathing. Trigger discipline.
Outside, the engine noise cuts off. Doors open with quiet clicks that speak to trained operators approaching a target. They're not rushing. Not sloppy. Professional hit team.
I count my breaths. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
I hear footsteps. Multiple sets moving through underbrush instead of the access road. They're spreading out. Surrounding us.
Marc is somewhere in the main room. I can't see him. I can't hear him. But I know he's there, positioned, weapon ready. Doing what he was trained to do.
Glass breaks.
Not a window. Something smaller. Motion sensor, maybe. They're taking out our early warning, cutting off our ability to know what's coming.
Then silence descends.
The forest has gone quiet. No wind sounds. No small animal movements. Even the night birds have gone still. Just silence before suppressed gunfire shatters it.
I hear several shots. More incoming. Rounds punch through the cabin's exterior wall. Wood splinters around me. One round hits something metal in the kitchen and ricochets with a sharp ping that makes my teeth clench. Another punches through the wall above my head. Too close.
Marc returns fire. I hear him moving through the main room. Shots. Movement. More shots. He's not staying in one place.
More rounds incoming from a different angle. They're working together. More shooters than I thought.
I press my back to the wall beside the bed, Glock aimed at the bedroom door. If they breach. If Marc goes down. If they come through that door. My training is ER trauma, not combat, but the principle is the same. You function. You don't freeze.
My grip stays steady. You don't fall apart when someone's bleeding out on your table. You do the job.
Gunfire intensifies. Marc's using the hunting rifles now. Heavier caliber. Reports are louder even through suppressed return fire. Making them pay for every foot of ground. I hearshouting outside. Commands in tactical shorthand. They're pressing harder.
But there are more of them. Angles shifting. Different positions. Different firing patterns. They know what they're doing.
Marc can hold them. But not forever. Not with trained operators who have numbers and firepower on their side.
A window explodes. The bedroom window. Glass showers across the floor. My eyes squeeze shut reflexively. I feel shards pepper my jacket and cut into exposed skin on my neck. Warm blood trickles down.
Something lands nearby and hits the floor with a metallic thunk. A cylindrical shape. I have barely enough time to react before it detonates.
I throw myself behind the bed, face pressed into the mattress as white light floods my vision even through closed eyelids.
Concussive force slams through the room. My ears ring. A high-pitched whine drowns everything else. Can't hear. Can't orient. The disorientation is complete and overwhelming. The world tilts sideways. Nausea hits hard.
But I'm not blind. Kept my eyes shut. Vision returns when I force them open. Everything is blurry but functional.
