Chapter 4 - The Black Suburbans
The sound of car doors clicking shut in the driveway sounded like rifles cocking in the silence of the evening.
"How did they find us?" I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "The funeral was only yesterday. Christopher’s obituary didn't mention anything—"
"They didn't track the obituary," Sadie said, her face pale as bone. "They monitored the biometric safe. Julian told me that if the safe in this study was opened, a silent ping would broadcast to a relay tower unless a local scrambler was engaged."
She cursed under her breath, a venomous, adult curse that sounded horrifying coming from a sixteen-year-old girl. "I forgot to switch on the frequency jammer on the desk."
"None of that matters now," I said.
A cold, unfamiliar adrenaline surged through my bloodstream, sweeping away the tears, the heartbreak, the grief. My children were downstairs eating popsicles, completely oblivious to the four armed men in dark tactical jackets currently stepping onto our front porch.
I picked up both 9mm handguns, racking the slides with a crisp, lethal *clack* that Christopher had taught me to do during our weekend trips to the upstate hunting range. Back then, he had smiled and told me, *"A modern woman should know how to defend her home, Ellie."*
He hadn't been teaching me a hobby. He had been preparing me for this exact moment.
"Sadie," I ordered, my voice dropping into an icy register. "Take the backpacks from the safe. Stuff the cash and the passports into them. Then go to the kitchen, grab Mason and Paisley, and take them down to the basement crawlspace."
"Eleanor, there's four of them," Sadie hissed. "They aren't private detectives. These are kill-teams."
"This is my house," I whispered. "Move!"
Sadie grabbed the heavy nylon bag, stuffed the documents and cash bundles inside, and sprinted down the hallway.
I stayed in the study, crouching behind the heavy mahogany door. Through the hallway archway, I heard the heavy *thud* of knuckles against our front door.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Three deliberate, rhythmic strikes.
"Mrs. Miller?" a deep, polite, resonant male voice called out through the oak paneling. "Mrs. Eleanor Miller? My name is Special Agent Vance’s former associate, Arthur Davis. We need to speak with you regarding your husband’s estate and certain Department of Defense property."
I didn't answer. I backed up toward the top of the stairs, my boots silent on the carpet.
Downstairs, I heard the kitchen door click open, followed by the muffled squeak of the basement bulkhead door. Sadie had gotten the kids below.
"Mrs. Miller," the voice outside repeated, the polite facade dropping into a chilly, mechanical monotone. "We know you unlocked the biometric cache four minutes ago. We know Sadie Cross is in the structure. Opening the door voluntarily is the only outcome where your children remain unharmed."
The mention of Mason and Paisley ignited a white-hot fury inside my chest.
*Crack!*
The heavy oak front door bowed inward as a hydraulic ram hit the deadbolt. Plaster dust exploded from the frame.
*Crack!*
The deadbolt splintered through the cedar jamb. The front door swung wide, letting in the damp evening breeze, along with the heavy tactical boots of two men in charcoal windbreakers, their suppressed submachine guns raised at low-ready.
"Clear left," one murmured through a tactical headset.
"Clear right. Stairwell is unsecure," the second man replied, his weapon sweeping upward toward the landing where I was crouched in the shadows.
He never saw me step forward.
I leaned over the banister, raised Christopher’s Glock with both hands, aligned the tritium night sights with the chest of the lead operative, and pulled the trigger twice.
*Pff-thump! Pff-thump!*
The suppressed shots were shockingly quiet, like heavy textbooks slamming onto a thick rug. The kinetic impact of the hollow-point rounds slammed the lead man backward into the entryway umbrella stand. He collapsed with a wet groan, his weapon clattering across the hardwood floor.
"Contact! Upper landing!" the second man yelled, diving behind the foyer wall as drywall erupted around him from my third and fourth shots.
"Basement! Now!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, firing a suppression burst into the living room doorway to pin him down.
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I didn't wait to see if the second operative would return fire. I turned, bolted down the rear service stairs that connected the master suite directly to the laundry room, and hit the basement floor just as automatic fire tore through the ceiling above me, showering plaster and fiberglass insulation over my head.
***
