Chapter 6 - The Gathering Storm
The next three days at the lake house were a blur of intense, unrelenting preparation.
If Kravarov’s men were coming, Dad wasn't going to hide. He turned the cabin into a fortress, but more importantly, he put me through the most rigorous training drills of my life. We sparred for hours on the padded basement mats until my arms ached and my breath burned in my lungs.
“Control is everything, Lily,” Dad said on Friday afternoon as we practiced joint locks against simulated opponents. “Anger makes you sloppy. Fear makes you hesitate. You must be as still as the lake outside, and as unstoppable as the tide.”
“I’m not scared, Dad,” I said, locking my elbow around the wooden dummy’s arm and executing a sharp, textbook takedown.
“I know you’re not,” Dad smiled, though his eyes remained shadowed with worry. “That’s what worries me.”
On Saturday night, the storm hit.
Heavy, freezing rain lashed against the ballistic windows of the cabin, turning the pine forest into a chaotic swirl of shadows and howling wind. Inside, the power flickered once, twice, and then died completely, plunging the cabin into darkness save for the emergency battery-powered lanterns glowing along the baseboards.
Viktour crouched by the front window, peering through military-grade night-vision binoculars out toward the gravel access road.
“They’re here,” Viktour whispered, not taking his eyes off the glass. “Two black SUVs. Four men in tactical gear, moving through the tree line. No badges. Professional grade.”
Dad walked calmly to the weapon rack by the stone fireplace, pulling out a solid oak training bo-staff and checking its balance. He turned to me.
“Lily. Go to the safe room behind the pantry,” Dad instructed, his voice firm and absolute.
“No, Dad,” I said, stepping forward wearing my black canvas training gi. “I’m not hiding.”
“Lily—”
“You taught me that real skill doesn’t need attention, but it also doesn’t run when it’s tested,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “Tyler Vance was just a bully. These men are professionals. And I am a Carter. I train three nights a week at the elite syndicate gym. I am not sitting in a closet while my home is attacked.”
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Dad stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, a faint, proud smile broke through the grim lines of his face. He reached down and handed me a pair of heavy, weighted wooden training batons.
“All right, bug,” Dad said, his voice dropping into a fierce whisper. “Let’s show them what we teach at the gym.”
