Chapter 7 - The Intruder in the Kitchen
I didn't hesitate. I threw the door open, unlatched the chain, and shoved past Caleb with enough force to send him sprawling against the porch railing.
"Evelyn, wait! You don't know how many of them—" he shouted, but I was already moving.
My knee screamed in protest as I hit the floorboards of the hallway, but the pain was instantly drowned out by the cold, surgical focus of a military commander entering a compromised zone. I cleared the threshold of the parlor in three swift strides, my hand slipping into the pocket of my jacket where my tactical blade rested.
The house was dead silent.
The small green lamp on the roll-top desk cast long, dancing shadows across the parlor walls. I crossed the threshold into the kitchen, my eyes sweeping every corner.
Knox was standing by the center island, his tail tucked slightly, letting out a low, warning rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. The back pantry door—the one leading out to the overgrown garden—was standing wide open, letting in a draft of chilly autumn air.
No one was standing by the pantry.
On the center island, right next to the electric kettle I had left unplugged earlier, sat a single, silver object.
It was a standard military-issue dog tag on a frayed ball chain, resting on top of a black leather notebook.
I stepped closer, my heart hammering a rhythmic, heavy beat against my ribs. I reached out and picked up the dog tag. The edges were worn, scorched slightly by fire, and stamped with a name I hadn't seen outside of my own nightmares.
Lewis Vance.
The blood rushed out of my face.
Victor Vance. Lewis Vance.
They weren't just business associates or casual enemies from an overseas audit. They were brothers. And for twelve years, I had believed that Lewis had died in an accidental IED blast outside Al-Huda—while his own brother had been running the very supply chain network we were investigating.
"Finding what you're looking for, Commander?"
The voice came from the darkened doorway behind me, smooth, cold, and dripping with a sickening familiarity.
I spun around on my heel, ignoring the grinding agony in my reconstructed knee, and came face-to-face with the man stepping out of the shadows of the pantry hallway.
He was wearing an expensive charcoal suit that looked entirely out of place in Grandpa’s rustic kitchen. His silver hair was neatly combed, and his pale eyes carried the unmistakable, predatory gleam of a man who held all the cards and knew it.
"Victor," I said, my voice dropping an octave, steadying into a calm as lethal as ice. "You've got a lot of nerve walking onto federal property after what happened in Dubai."
May you like
Victor smiled, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets as he took a slow, measured step toward me. "Property? Oh, Evelyn. You really think this little farmhouse is yours just because an old man signed a piece of paper? My brother’s blood paid for the foundation of this entire county, and you're about to find out just how much debt this family really owes."
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