Chapter 7 - The Siege of the Saltbox

The attack came at 3:14 AM.

There was no polite knock, no warning shout. Just the shattering of the reinforced glass kitchen window as a concussion grenade sailed through the opening, followed by the deafening CRACK of automatic gunfire chewing through the outer cedar siding.

"Down!" Raphael roared, shoving me behind the massive stone hearth just as a hail of 5.56 rounds chewed through the timber walls, sending wood splinters and drywall raining down over the room.

Leo woke up crying, his screams piercing the roar of the gunfire.

"Gideon! Take the boy to the safe room!" Raphael yelled, firing a calculated double-tap through the front window toward the muzzle flashes outside in the courtyard.

Gideon scooped Leo off the sofa in one arm, his carbine barking a three-round burst through the side window, and shoved them both toward the reinforced steel door beneath the cellar stairs. "Go! Now!"

I didn't go to the cellar.

I scrambled across the floor, grabbed the Glock 19 Gideon had left on the table, racked the slide with a sharp, metallic clack, and crawled up beside Raphael behind the stone hearth.

"You said you wanted to load magazines," Raphael muttered, his face blackened by gun smoke, a small cut bleeding over his left eyebrow. "Now prove it."

Outside, heavy combat boots pounded across the wooden porch.

"Clear the room! Burn it down!" a voice shouted in the darkness.

Two Vanguard enforcers kicked the heavy oak front door inward, stepping into the great room with rifles raised.

They didn't live long enough to take a second step.

Raphael’s shotgun boomed twice in rapid succession, sending the first man flying backward off the porch.

The second man swung his rifle toward Raphael’s blind spot.

My hands were shaking, but my training from the title bureau—the absolute, unyielding precision required to catch a forged signature—took over. I raised the Glock, aimed for center mass, and pulled the trigger.

BANG.

The bullet caught the enforcer square in the tactical vest, spinning him around and dropping him hard onto the hardwood floor.

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My fiancé let his friend chop off my mother’s waist-length

My husband spent the night with another woman

My husband brought his mistress to our nine-year-old daughter’s dance

"Not bad for a florist," Raphael growled, a grim smirk crossing his face as he reloaded his shotgun with practiced fluidity.

"I told you," I panted, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, "I don't run anymore."