Chapter 5 - The Approaching Storm
"Mira," Logan whispered sharply, rushing into the living room. "Get Eli. Get into the basement panic space. Now."
Mira didn't ask questions. Her street survival instincts kicked in instantly. She scooped up the bewildered eight-year-old, slapped a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, and bolted toward the basement door.
"Dad?" Eli muffled through her fingers, his eyes wide with terror.
"I'll be right behind you, buddy," Logan lied.
As soon as the basement door clicked shut, the heavy oak of the front door splintered inward with a deafening crash.
Two men stepped into the hallway. They wore dark clothing, and the unmistakable metallic glint of suppressed handguns rested in their grips.
"Check the upstairs," the first man muttered, stepping over the ruined doorframe.
Logan was standing in the shadows of the kitchen, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He didn't own a gun. He was an architect, a father, a widower. He was not a killer.
But as he looked at the men who had stolen three years of his wife's life, who had forced his son to cry over an empty grave, a primal rage erupted inside him.
He grabbed his heavy steel flashlight from the counter.
As the first man stepped into the kitchen, scanning the dark room, Logan swung the heavy flashlight with everything he had.
The metal connected with the side of the man's head with a sickening crack. The intruder crumbled to the linoleum floor without a sound.
Logan scrambled to grab the dropped gun, but the second intruder had heard the scuffle.
"Hey!" the man yelled, leveling his weapon at Logan.
Logan dove behind the heavy marble kitchen island just as two suppressed shots thudded into the cabinetry above his head, raining wood splinters down on his neck.
"We know she's here, Whitmore," the man called out, advancing slowly. "Give up the woman and the drive, and maybe we let you and the kid live."
Logan realized he was trapped. The man was flanking him.
Suddenly, the wail of police sirens pierced the night, growing rapidly louder. Flashing red and blue lights painted the rain-slicked windows of the living room.
The intruder paused, cursing violently. He looked toward the broken front door, then back toward the kitchen island.
Deciding that getting caught by the police was worse than failing the mission, the hitman turned and sprinted out the back door, vanishing into the storm.
Logan stayed pressed against the floor, shaking uncontrollably, until he heard heavy boots rushing into his house.
"FBI! Drop your weapons!" a voice roared.
Logan peeked out. Standing in the hallway, holding a badge and a drawn weapon, was Marcus Thorne, flanked by three heavily armed federal agents.
Logan dropped his head to the floor and finally let out a sob of relief.
"Marcus," he choked out.
May you like
Marcus holstered his weapon and ran to his friend. "I told you I was coming, brother. Are you okay? Where is Mira?"
Logan pointed a shaky finger toward the basement door. "She's safe. She's right here."
