Chapter 5 - The Trap Springs
The scarred man’s hand reached out, his gloved fingers wrapping around the brass knob of the closet door.
In the fraction of a second before he pulled it open, I kicked the louvered doors outward with all my weight.
The heavy wood slammed directly into his chest with a sickening crunch, sending him stumbling backward into his partner. Before either of them could recover their balance, I launched myself out of the closet, driving my shoulder straight into the scarred man’s sternum and taking both of us crashing to the floor.
“Get her!” the second man shouted, scrambling to draw his own weapon.
I didn't give him the chance. Using the scarred man’s momentum against him, I hooked my ankle behind his knee, sweeping his legs out and using his bulky frame as a shield just as a silenced pistol cracked, sending a bullet tearing through the wall studs inches above my head.
Wood splinters rained down on my hair.
The scarred man grunted beneath me, trying to bring his own gun to bear, but I drove the heel of my palm upward against his chin, snapping his head back against the floorboards with a dull thud. He went instantly limp.
I scrambled up, turning to face the second operative.
He was leveling his Glock right at my chest, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Crack!
A loud, window-shattering explosion echoed from the front porch, followed by the terrifying roar of a high-powered rifle round slamming through the exterior wall. The bullet missed the operative by inches, striking the doorframe and showering him in white plaster.
He froze, wide-eyed, dropping his weapon and throwing his hands up in surrender as a red laser dot danced across his forehead.
“Drop the weapon! Hands on your head! Now!” a sharp, amplified voice roared from outside through a megaphone.
Federal Marshals.
Through the shattered front window, I saw three black SUVs blocking the dirt driveway, their emergency lights flashing strobes of blinding red and blue across the peeling white paint of the farmhouse.
I stood slowly, wiping dust from my Navy SEAL jacket, my breathing steady as I looked down at the unconscious operative at my feet.
Then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. A text message from an unknown number flashed across the screen:
“You think the Marshals are here to save you, Commander? Look outside the back window.”
May you like
Slowly, I walked to the rear window overlooking the overgrown backyard and pushed the curtain aside.
Parked at the tree line, half-concealed by the pine shadows, was an unmarked black van. And sitting on its roof, pointing directly at the front porch where the federal agents were currently swarming, was a heavy-caliber anti-materiel rifle.
