Page 46 of Stealing Cinder

SAMUEL

Acrunch of gravel pulls me from the dark.

I am already dressed. Already standing in the shadows of the corridor between the master suite and the living room, my Glock warm against my ribs from two hours of waiting in the shadows.

The second Cinder's breathing deepened and her fingers stilled against my chest, I eased out from under her. She murmured my name in her sleep and rolled into the warm indent my body left behind. I covered her with the heavy sheet, pressed my mouth to her temple, and walked away from the only peace I've ever known.

I dress quickly and ease through the house. Cold air presses against my senses, sharp enough to keep me alert.

My phone glows from the inside pocket of my jacket. I pull it out. The screen is dimmed to near nothing, just enough to read the single word on the display.

Valerian: Set.

I pocket the phone and exhale slowly through my nose.

The side gate on the east perimeter is unlocked. Valerian loosened the bolt two hours ago, leaving the iron open a crack. Barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through if he was looking for entry. If he was desperate. If he was stupid enough to walk into a trap that's been waiting for him all night.

Edgar is all three.

I know his playbook because men like Edgar only have one. He’s a coward so he like others doing his dirty work.

He will send hired men first, who are nothing more than expendable bodies he paid for with Cinder's father's money. He'll hang back counting gunshots and wait until the noise stops before he steps foot on my property.

He thinks he is smarter than everyone. He has never been in a room with me.

Shadows shift just beyond the hedges. A figure breaks from the hedgerow near the east fence, upright for half a second, long enough for the landscape light to catch the ridged scar tissue running from jaw to collar. Valerian. He holds my gaze across forty yards of darkness, lifts two fingers, and dissolves back into the shadow.

Oliver is near the front gate. I can't see him, but I don't need to. Thirty years of operating beside a man teaches you to track him by instinct. Oliver's silence is a weapon as sharp as anything in his holster.

Bastian is on the west side. He always picks the entry point closest to the fight, and the service entrance off the kitchen is the only door on that flank.

I check the bedroom door. Closed. Cinder is behind it and safe. When this is all over, I’ll enjoy waking her with the good news that she and our baby are safe.

Everything I love in this world is behind that door.

I turn my back to it and face the dark.

The first breach comes at 4:17 a.m.

Gravel shifts near the east gate. I track the sound by its rhythm, multiple boots, unevenly spaced, men moving fast without discipline. Sorry fuckers. It’s almost a shame to have to end their lives.

They bunch at the opening and push through one after another, bodies scraping the iron.

My enforcers are positioned along the fence in a staggered line. I gave them one order—let the first wave through. Let them commit. Then cut them off from retreat.

Three men clear the gate. The first carries a shotgun at his hip. The second holds a compact submachine gun with both hands, sweeping left. What the actual fuck. What a fucking idiot.

The third brings up the rear with a pistol drawn. The smartest of the three.

Also the unluckiest.

My lead enforcer drops the third man before his boot finds solid ground on the other side of the fence. The suppressed round punches through the night with a muted crack that barely registers above the hum of the climate system through the open vent. The man folds sideways into the iron gate and his pistol clatters against the stone path.

The other two spin toward the sound. My second enforcer takes the one with the submachine gun. Center mass. The body hits the gravel and the weapon thuds to the ground with him.

What a pitiful fool.

The shotgunner fires blind. The blast tears through a section of hedgerow and scatters green across the path. Before he can pump the next shell, Valerian materializes behind him. One scarred hand clamps over the barrel, wrenching it skyward, and the other drives a fist into the base of the man's skull. The enforcer crumples.