Chapter 3 - Glass on the Hardwood Floor
The sound of shattering safety glass tore through the quiet living room like a lightning strike.
A heavy, black-painted tactical projectile crashed through the double-pane window, bouncing across the oriental rug and spewing thick, grey chemical smoke.
James ducked instinctively, throwing his arm over his face to shield his eyes from flying glass fragments.
Olivia didn't hesitate.
The four seconds of confusion were the only chance she was ever going to get.
She dropped her weight low to the floor, lunged sideways around the glass coffee table, and grabbed the heavy brass table lamp from the end table.
She swung the lamp with every ounce of strength remaining in her trembling body.
The solid metal base struck James across the side of his skull with a dull, hollow thud.
James stumbled sideways, crying out in pain as the semi-automatic pistol slipped from his fingers and clattered beneath the sofa.
Olivia didn't wait to see if he would get back up.
She sprinted through the dense, burning smoke filling the living room, heading directly for the back patio door.
The smoke burned her throat, filling her lungs with the taste of sulfur and hot rubber.
Behind her, the heavy front door was kicked off its hinges with a tremendous splintering crash.
Heavy combat boots pounded onto the hardwood floor.
“Target is moving toward the rear!” a harsh, gravelly voice barked through the smoke.
Olivia reached the sliding glass patio door, threw the latch open, and burst out into the damp, chilly morning air.
Her bare feet hit the cold, wet grass of her backyard.
She knew she couldn't run down the street; the black SUV had a partner vehicle guarding the main suburban avenue.
Instead, she vaulted over the low wooden picket fence that separated her yard from the neighbor’s property.
The rough cedar pickets tore a jagged gash into the fabric of her robe and scraped against her hip, but she felt no pain.
Adrenaline was surging through her veins like pure fire.
She landed hard on the wet mulch of the Henderson family’s garden bed.
The Henderson house was quiet; the elderly couple had left two days ago for their annual Florida vacation.
Olivia ran along the side of their detached garage, ducking behind the row of overgrown rhododendron bushes.
Through the gaps in the leaves, she looked back toward her own home.
Two tall men dressed in dark gray civilian jackets and tactical vests were emerging onto her back patio.
One of them was holding an automatic rifle fitted with a thick sound suppressor.
The other man bent down, picked up a smear of fresh mud near the broken fence, and pointed directly toward the Henderson yard.
“She went through the fence!” he shouted.
Olivia pressed her back against the cold brick foundation of the garage, holding her breath until her ribs ached.
Suddenly, her cell phone vibrated again in her pocket.
She pulled it out with trembling, dirt-caked fingers.
The screen showed another incoming message from the unknown sender.
DO NOT GO TO THE STREET. GO TO THE HENDERSONS' TOOL SHED. THE FLOORBOARD BENEATH THE LAWNMOWER IS LOOSE.
Olivia stared at the screen, her heart slamming against her throat.
Whoever was texting her knew the exact layout of the neighboring property.
Whoever was texting her was watching her in real time.
She looked across the yard toward the weathered wooden shed standing at the edge of the property line.
She had no choice.
Staying behind the garage meant being cornered within sixty seconds.
Olivia stayed low, crawling on her hands and knees across the damp grass, slipping into the shadow of the wooden shed.
The side door of the shed was unlocked, hanging open by half an inch.
She slipped inside and immediately pulled the door shut behind her, sliding the rusted iron bolt into place.
The air inside the shed smelled of gasoline, fertilizer, and damp earth.
Olivia moved quickly to the center of the shed where an old green riding mower sat covered in dust.
She dropped to her knees, reaching beneath the rusted metal undercarriage.
Her fingers caught the edge of a wide pine floorboard.
With a sharp pull, the board yielded, lifting upward to reveal a shallow concrete crawlspace beneath the shed’s foundation.
Inside the dark cavity lay a small, black waterproof duffel bag and a set of car keys.
Olivia reached down, pulled the duffel bag into the dim light of the shed, and unzipped it.
Inside was a stack of twenty-dollar bills wrapped in bank paper—roughly ten thousand dollars in cash.
Beside the money was a driver's license with her photograph, but the name on the card read: VICTORIA STERLING.
Underneath the license lay a small, folded handwritten note written on blue stationery.
Olivia unfolded the paper with shaking fingers.
The handwriting was unmistakably her mother’s elegant, slanted script—the same script that had written birthday cards to Olivia for twenty-five years.
My darling Olivia, the letter read.
If you are reading this, James has failed his final test, and Clara’s time has run out.
The world must believe you are dead for the next forty-eight hours.
Do not trust the police. Do not contact your office.
Take the silver sedan parked behind the abandoned Methodist church on Elm Street.
Drive to the address saved in the car's navigation system.
I am waiting for you.
— Mom.
Olivia dropped the letter onto the floor of the shed, her vision swimming.
Her mother was alive.
The woman she had mourned for five years, the woman whose hospital bed she had sat beside while monitors flatlined, had staged her own death.
Suddenly, a heavy boot struck the wooden door of the shed from the outside.
The rusted latch groaned under the impact.
“She’s in here!” a voice shouted from just beyond the thin wooden planks.
Olivia grabbed the duffel bag, snatched the car keys from the hiding spot, and looked toward the back of the shed.
May you like
A small hinged window used for ventilation was open a few inches to let out exhaust fumes.
She kicked the window fully open, shoved the duffel bag through the gap, and pulled herself through the narrow opening just as the shed door exploded off its hinges.
