I drop flat behind the couch, pressing myself as low as I can. Splinters rain down over my back. A round tears through the cushion inches from my head, and another punches through the wall behind me.
They aren't trying to get in clean. They are trying to wipe the entire place off the map.
I can’t see Beau. I can't hear him over the gunfire.
I can’t see Brooke either.
The rounds keep coming, ripping through the second floor, tearing across the ceiling, and spraying through the landing where she just moved.
For a second, my head goes somewhere I don't want it to go.
If one of those rounds hit her—
I shut it down.
I stay flat. I wait it out. I listen.
The gunfire slows, then stops.
Silence doesn't follow. Boots hit the porch again, and they move fast and aggressive while closing in.
The handle jerks. The lock holds for one second before something heavy slams into the door. The frame groans. Another hit follows, harder. The wood cracks. A third impact blows it open. The door bursts inward.
The first man enters low, rifle sweeping, clearing angles as he moves. His partner follows tight behind him, covering the opposite side.
The first one tracks toward the couch, and his barrel dips slightly.
I move.
The blade cuts across the back of his ankle.
He reacts fast, twisting, trying to pull away, but the tendon gives. His leg folds and he drops hard, and a sharp grunt breaks out of him as the rifle slips from his grip.
He reaches for it immediately.
I grab his vest and drag him back before he can get control. The knife drives into his ribs, angled up. He slams his elbow toward my head, and it clips my shoulder enough to sting but not enough to stop me.
I stab again.
He chokes, still fighting, still reaching. Blood runs down his chin as his fingers scrape toward the rifle.
I wrench his head back and drive the blade under his jaw.
His body jerks once, then drops.
The second man pivots, and his weapon is already coming up toward me.
A gunshot cracks from above.
The bullet tears through his upper chest and knocks him sideways into the wall. He stumbles and tries to bring the rifle back up.
Another shot follows.
This one takes him through the head. Bone and blood hit the wall behind him as his body collapses across the doorway.
I glance up.
Brooke is on the landing, flat against the floor, with her arm extended through the railing and her gun steady as she tracks the entryway.
