Feet planting strategically to avoid making noise. Eyes scanning methodically and continuously—every shadow, every corner, every potential hiding spot.
Behind me close but controlled, I could feel Ella's tense presence. Trusting me to lead even though every maternal instinct in her was screaming to rush forward to her niece.
Then I heard it clearly through the rain noise.
A voice. Small. High-pitched. Young and innocent.
A girl's voice, humming something tuneless and content.
Safe. Unaware.
The bedroom door was cracked open.
I approached at a careful angle that wouldn't silhouette me against the hallway light, looked through the narrow gap.
A figure stood completely motionless inside the bedroom wearing a black rain slicker, hood still pulled up obscuring their face and identity, staring down fixedly at something on the floor.
Sabine.
She was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, completely absorbed in playing with small colorful toys like absolutely nothing was wrong in her small world.
Oblivious to any danger.
My chest tightened painfully seeing her there. Safe. Unharmed. Alive.
For now.
I pushed the door open wider with my shoulder, gun trained directly and steadily on the figure's center mass.
"Turn around," I said quietly but with unmistakable command. "Slowly. Hands where I can see them."
The figure didn't move or respond in any way.
Just stood there like a motionless statue.
I was opening my mouth to repeat the command more forcefully when Ella's voice suddenly shattered the tense quiet.
"Sabine!"
Not quiet. Not controlled. Not tactical.
A scream. Raw and desperate and purely maternal.
I reached back just in time to catch Ella's arm, physically holding her back from rushing blindly into the room without knowing the situation.
Good thing I did.
Because the person in the rain slicker finally turned around in response to the sudden noise.
Slow. Mechanical. Wrong somehow.
And there was a gun gripped tightly in his right hand.
Pointed directly down at Sabine's small, defenseless form on the floor.
I could see his face clearly now as the hood fell partially back from the turning movement.
This wasn't a gangster from the Consortium. Not a professional operative sent to deliver a calculated message. Nottrained muscle or experienced killer. Just a guy in a suit under the slicker, like he’d just come from work or a cocktail party.
