Little does he know, that's exactly what I'm counting on.
"Time to go," I tell her, gently disengaging her hands from my vest. "To the panic room. Now."
She rises on tiptoe to press one more desperate kiss to my lips before turning and heading for the office. I watch her go, memorizing the sway of her hips, the fall of her dark hair, the determined set of her shoulders. My woman. My future. My reason for coming back alive tonight.
Once she's secured in the panic room, I make my final preparations. Motion sensors positioned strategically around the property. Trip wires that will alert me to any approach. Lights set to automatic timers to make it look like we're both here, going about our evening as usual.
Then I slip out the back, into the gathering darkness, becoming one with the shadows. I don't go far—just into the trees surrounding the clearing where my cabin sits. Close enough to monitor, far enough to remain undetected. And I wait.
They arrive two hours later. Two black SUVs, headlights off as they creep up my long driveway. Amateur. I can see the heat signatures of their engines from half a mile away with my thermal scope.
Six men. More than I expected. Donovan must really want Priscilla to pull this kind of manpower away from his main operation.
Too bad none of them are leaving my property alive.
They split up—four approaching the front door, two circling around back. Standard breach formation. They're professionals, but they're not special forces. Not like me.
I take out the two at the back first, silent and efficient. One knife throw to the base of the skull for the first one. The second doesn't even have time to register his partner dropping before my arm is around his throat, cutting off blood flow to his brain. Unconscious in seconds, dead in minutes. I lower him soundlessly to the ground.
The four at the front are trickier. They've stacked up on either side of the door, ready to breach. I could take them out one by one from my position in the trees, but that would alert the others. Better to let them enter, separate, make themselves vulnerable.
They breach with surprising coordination—flash-bang through the window, followed by a synchronized entry. Professional. Organized. Dead men walking.
I give them thirty seconds to spread out inside, searching for Priscilla. Then I enter through the back door, into my territory. My hunting ground.
What follows isn't pretty. It's not a fair fight—was never meant to be. I'm a ghost, a shadow, death incarnate moving through my own home. The first man goes down with my knife between his ribs before he even registers my presence. The second turns at the sound of his partner's dying gurgle, only to catch two silenced rounds to the center mass.
The third is quicker, managing to get off a shot that grazes my arm before I'm on him, driving my combat knife up under his jaw and into his brain. Quick. Clean. Final.
The fourth—the leader, judging by his equipment—is smarter than the others. He's taken cover behind my overturned dining table, radio in hand, calling for backup that will never come.
"They're all dead," I tell him, my voice cold as the grave. "Just like you're about to be."
"Walker," he snarls, recognition in his voice. "Donovan said you might be a problem."
"I'm not a problem," I correct him, moving like a wraith through my own shadows. "I'm a fucking catastrophe."
He fires blindly in my direction, rounds splintering wood where I was standing a second ago. But I'm already moving, already flanking him. One moment he's alone, the next I'm behind him, my knife at his throat.
"Who sent you?" I demand, though I already know the answer. "Donovan?"
He swallows, the movement making the blade nick his skin. "Just following orders, man. Nothing personal."
"It became personal the moment you came for what's mine." I press the blade harder, drawing a thin line of blood. "Where is Donovan now?"
"Warehouse on Elgin," he gasps, self-preservation winning out over loyalty. "Meeting the new crew. Planning the grab for tomorrow night."
"There won't be a tomorrow night for Donovan," I promise him. "Or for you."
His death is quick—quicker than he deserves for coming after my Priscilla. But I'm efficient, not cruel. At least, not when I have more important targets to eliminate.
The cabin is silent again, save for the drip of blood on hardwood. Six bodies. Six problems eliminated. But not the source. Not Donovan.
I check for any survivors—there are none—before heading to the office. My fingerprint on the scanner, the heavy door tothe panic room slides open, revealing Priscilla huddled in the corner, eyes wide with fear that immediately transforms to relief when she sees me.
"Woodrow!" She launches herself at me, nearly knocking me back with the force of her embrace. "Oh my God, are you okay? I heard gunshots?—"
"I'm fine," I assure her, wrapping my arms around her trembling form. "Just a graze." I don't mention the blood soaking my sleeve—not all of it mine. Don't mention the six cooling bodies in our living room. She doesn't need those images in her head.
