Chapter 7 - Breach at the Cabin
The front heavy oak door didn't just open; it exploded inward as a heavy breaching charge blew the deadbolts right out of the frame with a deafening roar of splintering wood and smoke.
Two tactical operatives rushed through the cloud of debris, weapons raised, sweeping the dark living room with laser sights.
They expected an empty room or a panicked father shielding a terrified child.
Instead, they found Marcus Carter standing in the center of the room with a solid oak bo-staff resting casually across his shoulders.
“You’re late,” Dad said.
The first operative raised his submachine gun, but before he could squeeze the trigger, Dad spun the staff in a blinding arc, striking the barrel upward while sweeping the man’s legs out from under him with a textbook low kick. The operative hit the hardwood floor hard, his weapon skittering across the room.
The second operative lunged forward, trying to grab Dad from behind, but Viktour dropped out of the loft stairs directly onto his shoulders, driving him down into the rug with a bone-jarring thud.
More shadows moved at the splintered doorway. Three more men stepped into the foyer.
One of them was larger than the rest, wearing a heavy flak jacket and holding a tactical shotgun. He locked eyes with me standing near the kitchen island.
“Well, look what we have here,” the large man sneered, raising his weapon toward me. “Kravarov said there was a kid. Didn't say she’d be wearing a uniform.”
I didn't panic. My heart beat with absolute, crystallized clarity, exactly the way Dad had trained me to find during high-pressure tournament finals.
I took two steps forward, slipping my foot into the shadows beneath the dining table.
When the large man stepped across the threshold, lunging to grab my arm, I didn't pull away. I stepped into his momentum, using his own forward weight against him just like I had done with Tyler in the school room—only this time, with the full force of my training behind it.
I grabbed his tactical vest, twisted my hip, and dropped to my knees, executing a sacrifice throw that sent the massive man flying headfirst over my shoulder. He crashed violently into the stone hearth of the fireplace, his shotgun clattering across the floor as he went completely limp.
The remaining two operatives stopped dead in their tracks, looking from their unconscious comrade on the floor to a nine-year-old girl standing with her fists raised in a perfect defensive guard.
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Before they could recover their wits, Dad stepped up behind them, his bo-staff whistling through the air with terrifying precision.
In less than three minutes, the living room was silent again, save for the crackling of the fireplace and the steady patter of rain against the glass.
