His boot pressed down?—
A sharp electronic chirp cut through the night.
Scout went still.
Too late.
Motionalert.
Floodlights detonated around the yard, white beams exploding outward, washing the roofline in glare.
Damn it.
He’d triggered the secondary system.
Inside the main house, a monitor flickered blue.
And then?—
The back door opened.
Sinclair stepped into the yard, rifle already shouldered.
He wasn’t searching.
He was hunting.
Scout saw him.
Their eyes locked.
Scout lunged?—
The shot cracked.
Heat ripped through his shoulder and stole the air from his lungs. The bullet tore through him and blew out the skylight behind him.
Glass erupted in every direction.
His boots lost traction. Shingles scraped his spine like grit and broken glass.
He clawed for the gutter—but his right arm went dead.
The roof did the rest. He tumbled.
Struck the old antenna near the eave—metal snapping, slowing him just enough?—
He rolled off the edge.
Branches tore at him.
Shrubs broke his fall—then frozen ground.
Hard.
The world flashed white.
Then gray.
