Chapter 5 - Shadows in the Suburbs
The unmarked black SUV slipped into the driveway of our suburban home without turning on its headlights.
The house looked normal from the outside—neatly manicured lawn, warm porch light glowing in the dusk, the family minivan parked neatly in the double-car garage. But to me, it looked like a haunted crypt.
Colonel Carter killed the engine. In the back seat, two tactical operatives in full body armor checked the safety switches on their sidearms.
"The perimeter is locked down," Carter whispered into his comms mic, keeping his eyes fixed on the front door of the house. "Thermal imaging shows one heat signature moving through the ground floor kitchen. It's Daniel."
I gripped the door handle, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. "He's burning the evidence."
"We move on my mark," Carter instructed the operatives. "Non-lethal unless fired upon. Secure the target, recover the journal, and lock down the perimeter."
We piled out of the SUV, moving silently across the damp grass. The night air was biting, smelling faintly of autumn leaves and woodsmoke.
Carter motioned for me to stay behind the brick pillar of the front porch while he and the two operatives breached the side kitchen door using a digital bypass tool. The lock clicked softly. The door swung open.
I couldn't wait. I slipped past the porch pillar, crept up the steps, and pushed my way through the front door into the darkened foyer.
The house was dead silent.
I crept down the hallway toward the guest bedroom. The door was ajar, casting a thin strip of yellow light across the hardwood floor.
I peeked inside.
Daniel was on his knees by the radiator. He had already pried up the loose floorboard, and in his hands, he held my black leather journal. A small metal trash can sat beside him, filled with burning scraps of paper.
"Looking for this, Claire?" Daniel asked softly without turning around.
He tossed my journal directly into the flames.
May you like
Before I could scream, a heavy hand clamped over my mouth from behind, and a cold, metallic barrel pressed firmly against the side of my neck.
"Don't move, Mrs. Whitaker," a smooth, unfamiliar voice whispered in my ear. "Or your husband's little fire show is going to be the least of your worries."
