Chapter 8 - The Breach
“Dad?”
Evan’s voice trembled from the top of the wooden stairs. He was wearing his gray pajamas, rubbing his eyes, clutching his favorite baseball glove like a shield as the sound of slamming car doors echoed from the yard outside.
“Get down, Cale! Stay low and crawl into the pantry!” I shouted, moving up the stairs in three long strides, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him away from the front-facing windows.
“What’s happening? Are we being robbed?” he gasped, his chest heaving as red and blue strobe lights began to paint the living room walls in frantic, flashing streaks.
“We’re not being robbed, buddy. Listen to me very carefully,” I said, looking straight into his wide, terrified eyes. “You’re going to crawl into the back of the root cellar beneath the kitchen floorboards. There’s a go-bag and a satellite phone down there. Do not come out for anyone unless I use our old unit code word. Understand?”
Before Evan could answer, the front door of the ranch house exploded inward with a deafening crash of splintering pine and shearing deadbolts.
“Police! Search warrant! Nobody move!”
Heavy tactical boots swarmed the entryway. Through the banister rails, I saw four figures in full ballistic gear, assault rifles raised, sweeping the living room with weapon-mounted flashlights. Leading them wasn't an ordinary patrol sergeant—it was Lieutenant Vance’s corporate goons, wearing stolen municipal tactical insignia.
“Clear the ground floor!” a harsh voice barked from the hallway.
I shoved Evan gently toward the back service stairs leading down to the kitchen pantry. “Go, Cale! Now!”
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He scrambled down the steps like a ghost. I dropped to one knee at the top of the wooden landing, pulling my Sig Sauer from my holster, my thumb flicking off the safety with a sharp, metallic click that vanished beneath the shouting downstairs.
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