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Amalie stirs in her sleep, sensing my restlessness. I rush to her side and gently place a finger over her lips, urging her to remain silent and stay in the bedroom. With one last lingering look, I reluctantly move toward the front door, my senses heightened.
As I step outside, my gaze darts from one shadowed corner to another. The street light flickers annoyingly, casting shadows that seem to dance in the wind. The stillness of the night hangs heavy like a shroud.
A shot rings out of the darkness, and Amalie screams. My heart stops. My blood runs cold as I sprint back inside. Panic consumes me, fueling my every step as I follow the echoes of her cries.
She’s in the bedroom, huddled against the wall, trembling with fear. Tears stream down her face, and she points a shaky finger toward the shattered window pierced by a bullet.
“Are you hurt?” I ask urgently, my voice frantic as I kneel beside her.
Amalie shakes her head, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “No, I'm okay. Just scared.”
“Don't worry. We’ve got this. Have you ever fired a gun?” I whisper.
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head.
Moving silently to the locked cabinet in the closet, I grab my spare piece and return to Amalie. “Quickest firearms lesson ever,” I murmur, showing her how to flick off the safety. “Point and pull the trigger. Take it. Only use it if you have to.” I put the safety back on and hand it to her. I wouldn’t usually give someone inexperienced in handling guns a weapon, but it could be the difference between life and death.
Amalie nods, and I watch as she repeats my actions, flicking the safety off and on again.
“Good girl. Stay behind me,” I say roughly, my heart pounding in fear—not fear for me but for Amalie.
My grip tightens around my weapon as I rise to my feet, scanning every corner of our home for any sign of the intruder. I know backup is coming, but time feels like an enemy closing in on me. My main concern is finding out how many threats are outside.
I cautiously move toward the shattered window, scanning the darkness beyond. Whoever fired that shot could still be lurking nearby, waiting for the perfect moment to strike again. With each step I take, my heart pounds in my chest, the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I can't afford to make any mistakes.
As I peer into the night, my trained eye catches a glimpse of movement near the tree line. I instinctively duck behind a nearby piece of furniture, keeping Amalie close behind me. My mind races, trying to formulate a plan to outmaneuver our unseen assailant.
I know I can't wait for backup. The threat is already here, and Amalie's safety is at stake.
“Amalie,” I whisper, my voice calm and steady, “stay with me.”
She opens her mouth, but before she can respond, automatic gunfire explodes, and bullets tear into the white clapboard siding. Amalie screams and crouches on the floor, her hands over her head.
“In the closet,” I order. “Now.”
I open the door, and she steps inside. “Stay here.” I cup her face with one hand, looking deep into her eyes. “I'm going back downstairs.”
“No, Lucas. Stay with me, please,” she begs as tires spin gravel in my driveway. “I can’t lose you.”
“I’m coming back, sweet girl, I promise. But I have to stop this.” The last thing I want to do is leave her, but remaining hidden won’t stop whoever wants us dead.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what lies ahead. I know my fellow officers are on their way, but I can't afford to wait for them. The safety of my wife is paramount, and I'm determined to put an end to this shit show.
Gripping my gun, I descend the stairs cautiously, my senses heightened. Every nerve in my body buzzes with adrenaline as I move through the dimly lit hallway. The house feels different now, a battleground where danger lurks in every corner.
As I reach the ground floor, I hear muffled voices from the kitchen. My heart thuds loudly as I move closer. With each step, my mind races, analyzing the possible scenarios that await me.
The kitchen door is ajar, and I glimpse several shadowy figures huddled together. They seem to be engaged in an argument.
“I didn't tell you fuckwits to kill my daughter. I need her alive. Her husband needs to stop breathing but keep her alive,” a gravelly voice snaps. “Find her! We need to get the fuck out of here before the cops show up.”
Somehow, I know it’s Amalie's father. The fucker has come here himself to retrieve his daughter rather than leaving it to his goons. He’s just signed his own death warrant.
Anger surges through my bloodstream, but I rein it in.
A gunshot echoes through the house, and my blood runs cold. Amalie.
“Stop shooting you assholes! If you hit my daughter, she’s useless to me!” her father yells.
