Chapter 3 - The Blood on the Porch
Naomi didn't sleep. She lay on the leather couch in the dark living room, her ears strained to catch every sound—the groan of the cedar walls settling, the wind whipping through the pine needles, the faint, slow breathing of Liam from his bedroom down the hall.
At 5:00 a.m., the gray light of dawn began to seep through the tall, narrow windows. Naomi sat up, pulling the thick blanket around her shoulders. She looked at her phone. It was turned off—Liam had instructed her to remove the battery the moment they stepped into the cabin to prevent cell tower triangulation.
She walked quietly to the kitchen, feeling a hollow ache in her stomach. On the counter sat a tin of ground coffee and a stainless steel drip pot. Grateful for something familiar to do, she brewed a pot, the rich, dark aroma filling the cold room.
"You don't have to cook or clean to justify staying here," a voice spoke from the hallway.
Naomi turned quickly. Liam stood in the doorway. He wore a dark henley shirt and tactical trousers, his brown hair damp from a shower. Without the wool overcoat, his frame was even more intimidating—built like a heavyweight fighter, all thick muscle and broad bone.
"I needed something to do with my hands," Naomi said softly. "Coffee?"
He walked over and accepted the ceramic mug she poured for him. "Your husband has been busy."
Naomi tensed. "What do you mean?"
Liam took a sip of the black coffee, staring out the window toward the dirt driveway. "My associate checked in twenty minutes ago. Greg called his cousin at the county sheriff's department around 3:00 a.m. He reported you missing, claimed you stole three thousand dollars from his safe, and told the police you were likely strung out on pain medication."
A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up in Naomi's chest. "Three thousand dollars? We don't have three hundred dollars in our bank account! He’s setting a paper trail so if he finds me..."
"So if he kills you, he can claim self-defense against a unstable addict," Liam finished her sentence coldly. "It’s a standard play for small-minded violent men."
"He's going to find me, isn't he?"
"Not here," Liam said. "This property isn't under my name. As far as the state of New York is concerned, this cabin belongs to a dead tax attorney from Albany."
Before Naomi could breathe a sigh of relief, a soft, electronic chime sounded from a black panel mounted beside the front door.
Liam lowered his coffee mug instantly. His entire demeanor changed—the relaxed posture vanished, replaced by an absolute, motionless stillness. He reached into his waistband, pulled out his weapon, and clicked off the safety without making a sound.
"Go to the back room," he commanded in a whisper. "Lock the door. Do not come out unless I tell you to."
"Liam—"
"Go!"
Naomi sprinted down the hallway and slipped into the small bedroom, pulling the heavy wooden door shut. She didn't lock it; instead, she pressed her eye against the thin crack between the frame and the door.
Through the gap, she saw Liam walk smoothly toward the front door, standing to the side of the heavy glass window rather than directly in front of it. He checked a small monitor mounted on the wall.
On the screen, a dirty red pickup truck was parked at the edge of the gravel driveway, its engine idling.
Greg’s Dodge.
Naomi’s blood turned to ice. How had he found them? How?
Liam didn't look surprised. He unlocked the deadbolt, pulled the heavy wooden door open, and stepped out onto the porch, leaving the screen door closed behind him. He kept his right hand tucked behind his back, hidden against the seam of his trousers.
From her vantage point, Naomi could see through the porch screens. Greg stepped out of the truck, clutching a heavy iron tire iron in his leather-gloved right hand. His face was red, blotchy with rage and lack of sleep, his eyes bloodshot.
"I know she's in there!" Greg bellowed, his voice carrying clearly through the woods. "I tracked her phone before she shut it off! It pinged off the tower down the road!"
Liam stood on the top step, looking down at Greg as if he were an annoying fly. "You're on private property."
"I don't give a damn about your property!" Greg roared, taking three steps toward the porch, raising the tire iron. "That’s my wife! She's a thief and a junkie! Hand her over, or I'm calling my cousin to bring four cruisers up this hill to tear this place apart!"
Liam didn't move an inch. "Your cousin has no jurisdiction in this county. And if you take one more step up those stairs, you won't be walking back down them."
Greg laughed—a harsh, wild sound born of unbridled ego and years of unchallenged control over a terrified woman. "You think you scare me, man? I don't know who you think you are, but—"
Greg lunged up the first two wooden steps, swinging the tire iron toward Liam’s head.
What happened next occurred with terrifying speed.
Liam didn't draw his gun. He ducked under the heavy iron swing, sidestepped Greg's momentum, and grabbed the front of Greg’s denim jacket with his left hand. With his right, Liam delivered a brutal, short-range elbow strike directly into the bridge of Greg’s nose.
The crunch of cartilage echoed across the quiet porch.
Greg shrieked, dropping the tire iron as blood burst from his face. Before he could fall, Liam grabbed him by the throat, slammed him backward against the wooden porch railing, and shoved the cold steel barrel of his pistol directly into the soft spot beneath Greg’s chin.
The violent struggle was over in less than three seconds.
Greg froze, his eyes wide with sudden, blinding panic, blood dripping down his mouth onto Liam’s polished leather shoes.
"Listen to me very carefully, Greg," Liam whispered, his voice smooth, calm, and terrifyingly cold. "If I see your face again, if I hear your name, or if you ever look in the direction of that diner again, I will not hit you. I will dig a hole four feet deep behind this mountain, and nobody will ever find your truck."
Liam pulled the gun back slightly, then slammed the steel butt of the weapon across Greg’s cheek, knocking him down the steps onto the wet gravel.
"Get off my land," Liam grunted, stepping back toward the door.
Greg scrambled backward on his hands and knees, sobbing, clutching his shattered nose, covered in dirt and blood. He stumbled into his truck, threw it into reverse, and slammed on the gas, tearing down the dirt driveway in a cloud of dust and gravel.
Liam stood on the porch for a long moment, watching the red truck disappear. Then he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped Greg’s blood off the barrel of his gun, and stepped back inside the cabin.
May you like
Naomi opened the bedroom door, her knees shaking so badly she had to hold onto the frame to keep from falling.
Liam looked at her, his expression cold and unbothered. "He won't be back today," Liam said, tossing the bloody handkerchief into the fireplace. "But he knows where this house is now. We leave in twenty minutes."
