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He scoffed. “The kind you don’t ever talk about unless absolutely necessary.”
I pulled up a chair and sat in front of him. “Dad, whatever this is, you know we can fight it. You know I can fight it. So, let me treat you like one of my clients. Start from the top and--”
“Get down!” Mom shrieked.
Adrenaline rush really is a thing. It’s a wonderful, fearful, terrifying, glorious thing. And the second the glass of the porch door behind my father’s head shattered, he lunged toward me. He moved at the speed of thunder, rumbling and rolling as he took both me and Em to the ground. He rolled both of us under the kitchen table as my hand reached out for Mom, and as her fingertips fell into the palm of my hand gunfire rained down upon us.
“Everyone, stay down!” Dad roared.
Glass shattered and wood splintered. Automatic weapons laid into our home, sinking bullets into the yellow plaster of the walls. I covered my ears and curled my lips over my teeth, waiting for the moment when one of those burning pieces of lead pierced my body.
And for the smallest of moments, I begged that metal to end my life. To end the nightmare. To end the riotous cacophony that had become my world.
“Why are they shooting at us!?” Em exclaimed.
“Who’s outside, Clyde!?” Mom shrieked.
I took a chance and peeked an eye open. Even while gunfire still beat down upon us, the look on my father’s face wasn’t what I figured it would be. I expected to see regret, or fear, or even possibly sadness. But instead, I found a look of fury. A look of determination. Of solitude, and purpose, and courage.
“Don’t you dare,” I growled.
His gaze met my stare. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I winced as glass splattered against my calf. “If we make it out of this, you tell me everything. Understood?”
He gripped my hand harder than I’d ever felt in my entire life. “I promise you, I will.”
He looked like a man on a mission. A man ready to stare down the Devil himself for the sake of his family. And as the gunfire ceased as quickly as it had started, we all held our breath. We all stayed underneath that kitchen table listening, and waiting, and biding our time to see if we’d hear… something. Anything. A voice, or footsteps, or a command. Anything to tell the police.
Anything that might give us a leg-up on those who were hunting us down like rabid dogs.
