Chapter 9 - Shadows in the Night|
Through the infrared cameras, the tactical team looked like glowing green ghosts moving through our living room. They cleared the corners with practiced efficiency, their weapons raised, scanning for movement.
Suddenly, the last man in the stack jerked backward into the shadows of the dining room.
No sound reached my monitor, but I saw his weapon drop to the floor. A dark silhouette appeared behind him, driving a combat blade into his tactical vest before dragging him silently into the darkness of the hallway pantry.
My father.
He was moving through his own home like a ghost, utilizing every shadow, every corner he had built and designed over twenty years.
The three remaining operators realized their man was gone. They broke formation, turning their weapons toward the hallway in a panic. One of them began firing blindly into the darkness, bright muzzle flashes illuminating the green screen in bursts of violent light.
On the second floor monitor, I saw Julian cowering behind the master bedroom doorway, holding the pistol my father had given him with both hands, shaking so violently he could barely keep his grip.
A second operator moved toward the basement stairs door—the very door protecting the stairwell leading down to me.
My father stepped out from the shadow of the hall closet right behind him.
In a single, fluid motion, he wrapped an arm around the operator's throat, twisting sharply while simultaneously stripping the rifle from the man's hands. The operator went limp, collapsing onto the hardwood floor.
Two down.
The remaining two operators backed into the kitchen, realizing they were being hunted in the dark by something far more dangerous than an old retired civilian.
Then, over the house intercom speaker inside my panic room, a voice echoed—not my father's, but a heavily synthesized voice coming from an operator's radio dropped on the floor.
"Daniel," the voice rasped through the static. "You can kill my team, but you can't protect the girl forever. I have your granddaughter."
My heart stopped.
On the desk monitor, a new feed flickered to life—a remote stream broadcasting from an unknown location.
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On screen, sitting in a dark room tied to a chair, was my eight-year-old daughter, Chloe.
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