He’d designed this house with sightlines and fallback positions built in. The architect had thought he was paranoid. The architect hadn’t been wrong.
In the hall closet, he punched in the code. The panel lit up. Six camera feeds, motion sensors, perimeter alerts. He activated each setting in sequence, then pulled the tablet from the shelf and showed Jen the screen. Six feeds showing different angles of his property. Trees. Driveway. Side yard. Back deck.
All clear.
For now.
His phone pinged, and he checked it.
Ryder.
We’re rolling.
Not fast enough. Wyatt pocketed his phone.
The house was secure?—
The alarm screamed.
Already too late.
41
Wyatt killedthe alarm with a swipe of his tablet.
Movement. Camera six.
Movement at the eastern treeline. He switched to thermal. Two signatures—close together. A second later, they split. One broke left but the other held.
The northwest perimeter lit up with a third and fourth signature.
Camera six blipped, then cut to static.
A second later, camera five went dark.
The rest followed.
These weren’t amateurs stumbling through the dark. These were professionals.
His teeth met under pressure. So was he.
His pulse slowed. The rest of him, everything that wasn’t the next five minutes, slid behind a door and locked itself down.
The weapon they’d made of him stepped forward. But this time, he chose the target.
He swung to face Jen and gripped her elbow.
“Bathroom. Now.”
He hustled her into the upstairs bathroom, through the transformed house, steel shutters locked in place.
“Wyatt—”
He took the Glock 43 from her, checked it, then pressed it back into her hands and positioned her grip. “Safety off,” he said, showing her cleanly. “Two hands. Always two hands.”
She nodded. “Okay?—”
“Don’t hesitate.” His grip tightened on her wrists before he forced it to loosen. Jen was strong.
