Chapter 4 - Footsteps on the Porch
The sound of boots on the warped wood of the front porch was deliberate, heavy, and completely unhurried.
I slammed the lid of the lockbox down, the digital keypad clicking back into darkness, and scrambled backward into the shadows of the bedroom closet just as the front door handle jiggled and turned with a loud, metallic click.
Knox let out a low, warning growl from the hallway, his fur bristling along his spine.
“Quiet, boy,” I murmured under my breath, slipping my hand into my jacket pocket where my pocket knife rested. It wasn't a firearm, but in close quarters, training mattered more than hardware.
“Who’s in the house?” a gruff, unfamiliar voice called out from the living room. It wasn't my father. It was a deeper, harsher voice—the voice of a man accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without question.
Footsteps moved across the braided rug, tracking fresh mud onto the clean smudge on the coffee table.
“Damn it,” the voice muttered. “The box has been accessed.”
A second set of footsteps entered behind him, lighter, faster. “Boss, the state police vehicle just left the courthouse twenty minutes ago. The old man must have tipped us off before they grabbed him.”
“He didn't tip us off; he got himself arrested like an idiot,” the first man snapped, his boots pivoting toward the hallway—straight toward the bedroom where I was hiding.
Through the louvered slats of the closet door, I watched the shadows lengthen.
My knee throbbed—a dull, persistent reminder of the IED blast that had ended my active career—but the familiar rush of combat adrenaline flooded my veins, cutting through the pain like ice water. My breathing slowed. I shifted my weight onto my uninjured leg, calculating angles, distances, and exit routes.
Two men stepped into the bedroom. Both wore civilian jackets over tactical gear, their bulges at the hip unmistakable. The lead man had a jagged scar running from his ear down his jawline—a face I recognized from an old classified intelligence brief on domestic private security contractors tied to illicit arms trafficking.
“Check the floorboards,” the scarred man ordered.
The second man dropped to his knees beside the bed. A second later, a sharp curse filled the room.
“It’s open! The lockbox is gone!”
“She took it,” the scarred man growled, pulling a suppressed Glock from his waistband. He spun around, his eyes scanning the empty room before locking directly onto the closet door where I stood. “And she couldn't have gotten far.”
He raised his weapon, taking two slow steps toward the closet.
May you like
I gripped the wooden handle of the closet door, waiting for the exact microsecond he reached for the knob.
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