Her chin trembled, but she didn’t cry.
“Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“Okay.” She sniffed, tilting her chin up. “I’m the Chief Engineer, right?”
“You are.” He stepped back and pulled the door shut. The lock engaged with a click from the other side.
His breathing was the only sound left—too loud.
Too human.
He pressed his palm to the door, fingers spread. His head dropped until his forehead almost touched the frame.
One second.
Just for her.
One breath.
He pushed off the door and killed the lighting.
Akilov had made a mistake coming for Jen.
Wyatt moved through the dark house like his own bloodstream. He could walk his house blindfolded. He’d built the place with one eye on comfort and one on contingency, never quite believing the war had ended.
The Glock 19 was steady in his grip. He eased down to the ground floor, sweeping the living room first. Moonlight leaked in from a small gap in the shutters. The room was silent. Clear.
He searched the utility, dining room and his office.
Nothing.
The house held.
Too quiet. They’d breached the perimeter but hadn’t entered. Unless they already had and were waiting.
He reached the kitchen, opened the door slow, leading with the muzzle. Cleared left, cleared right. The only sound was the hum of the fridge and his own pulse.
Wyatt slipped into the room, skin prickling. A sliver of moonlight cut across the tiles.
The back door was destroyed, blown clean where the deadbolts engaged.
His attention locked on the breach point.
A half-second of transition.
Air broke behind the island.
Something hard connected with his wrist—nerve fire ripped up his arm and the Glock flew from his grip, skidding across the floor.
His attacker was big, thick through the chest. He drove Wyatt back into the fridge. The handle speared his kidney, and white light burst behind his eyes.
Wyatt looped an arm around the other man’s neck and wrenched him down, smashing his face into the counter. Once. Twice. Cartilage ruptured. The man roared and threw an elbow that caught Wyatt’s temple. For a half-second the world tilted.
Wyatt grabbed the nearest thing—the cast-iron skillet—and swung it into the thickset man’s jaw with everything he had. The skillet smashed into bone with a sickening crack.
He toppled, cheek caved in, and didn’t get up.
One down.
