Chapter 7 - The Malibu Ambush
“Emma,” I whispered sharply, pushing my chair back from the table. “Get into the master bathroom and lock the door. Do not come out for any reason.”
Emma’s face drained of color as she glanced at the security monitor. “Nat, who are they? Are those the men from the phone call?”
“Just go!” I commanded, grabbing the heavy brass candlestick from the dining table and moving quickly toward the hallway.
I punched the secure emergency code into the wall-mounted federal panic button, sending an immediate, silent distress beacon directly to Agent Vance’s tactical response unit. The system displayed a blinking red light: Signal transmitted. ETA twelve minutes.
Twelve minutes. An eternity when you’re waiting for wolves to break down your front door.
I retreated into the master bedroom, locking the heavy glass-paneled sliding door that led to the deck, and pulled the sheer curtains shut. My heart was pounding in my ears, but my hands were remarkably steady. I had spent four years playing the victim in a gilded cage; I refused to die like one in a safehouse.
Crash.
The front door of the glass house splintered inward, the heavy oak frame shattering under the force of a battering ram or a powerful kick. Heavy footsteps echoed loudly across the hardwood floors of the living room.
“Check the bedrooms!” a gruff voice commanded. “The boss wants the drives, and he wants the girl quiet before the feds catch wind of Vanguard.”
Footsteps approached down the hallway, heavy and deliberate. The doorknob to the master bedroom rattled violently. When it didn't give, the man outside didn't hesitate—he slammed his shoulder against the wood until the latch splintered, swinging the door wide open.
He was a hulking man with a shaved head and a jagged scar running down his left cheek. He stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space before locking onto me standing by the edge of the bed, holding the heavy brass candlestick like a club.
A cruel, humorless smirk touched his lips. “Well, look at this. The billionaire’s runaway wife playing detective.”
“You’re trespassing on federal property,” I said, keeping my voice cold, calm, and steady. “And you’re about three minutes away from being surrounded by armed tactical agents.”
The thug chuckled, stepping closer and reaching inside his suit jacket for a firearm. “The feds are twenty miles away down the coast road, sweetheart. By the time they get here—”
He never finished the sentence.
From behind him, the bathroom door clicked open with lightning speed. Emma didn't hesitate—she charged out holding a heavy, industrial-sized fire extinguisher she had grabbed from the hallway utility closet, swinging it with all her might directly into the back of the intruder’s knees.
The man buckled with a sharp cry of agony, crashing hard onto the hardwood floor.
Before his partner could rush into the room to assist him, the deafening roar of a helicopter materialized directly overhead, shaking the glass walls of the Malibu cliffside house. Red and blue tactical lights flashed violently across the ocean fog as three black SUVs slammed to a halt in the driveway, their tires screeching against the pavement.
“Federal agents! Nobody move!” Agent Vance’s amplified voice bellowed through the coastal air.
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The second intruder froze dead in his tracks, dropping his weapon onto the rug and raising his hands behind his head as heavy combat boots stormed up the front steps.
The nightmare was over. The fixers had been caught in the trap.
