Chapter 7 - THE STORM
(1,500 words)
Two weeks later. March second.
A massive Pacific storm was rolling over the Monterey Peninsula. Thunder rumbled across the bay, driving heavy sheets of rain against the windows of my craftsman house.
It was 2:00 AM.
I woke up with a sharp, intense contraction that made me gasp out loud, clutching the bedsheets.
I sat up slowly, breathing through the wave of pain. I checked the timer app on my phone. The contractions were five minutes apart, lasting sixty seconds each.
My son was coming. Two weeks early.
I called my best friend and fellow battalion officer, Major Sarah Jenkins, who had promised to drive me to the hospital when the time came.
"Sarah," I said into the phone, my voice tight as another contraction started. "It's time."
"I'm on my way, Sloane!" Sarah said instantly over the line. "Ten minutes!"
While I waited, I slowly walked down the hallway to the nursery. The room was fully ready—warm blue walls, a white crib, a plush rocking chair, and Jasper's antique silver rattle sitting safely on the shelf beside a framed picture of Jasper smiling in his flannel shirt.
I leaned against the doorframe, breathing deeply through another contraction, holding my bump.
"We're almost there, baby," I whispered. "Your dad is watching us."
Suddenly, the headlights of a car swept across the nursery window, cutting through the dark, rainy night.
I walked to the front living room window, expecting to see Sarah's silver SUV. But the car parked in my driveway wasn't Sarah's.
It was a dark luxury Lincoln sedan.
My stomach dropped. I recognized that car instantly.
It was Agnes Ashby's sedan.
Before I could reach for my phone to call the police, the front doorbell rang—a sharp, relentless, frantic pounding against the heavy wooden door.
I grabbed the heavy brass umbrella stand near the entryway, holding it firmly in my right hand, and approached the door. I looked through the glass peephole.
Standing on my front porch, soaked in rain, her hair wild and matted against her face, her eyes bloodshot and unhinged, was Agnes.
She pounded her fist against the wood again. "Sloane! Open this door! Open it right now!"
"Agnes," I shouted through the locked door, keeping my voice cold and authoritative. "You are violating a legal restraining order! Leave my property immediately, or I will have the military police and Monterey PD arrest you!"
"I don't care about your restraining orders!" Agnes screamed, her voice cracking hysterically over the sound of thunder. "You took my son! You took my company! You turned Greta against me!"
She slammed her body against the door, her face pressed against the side window.
"My daughter packed her bags today!" Agnes shrieked, tears mixing with the rain on her face. "She moved out! She told me she hates me! She said you're more of a mother than I ever was! You stole my whole family, Sloane!"
I felt another sharp, intense contraction hit my abdomen. Pain shot through my back, making my knees buckle slightly. I leaned against the entryway wall, breathing through my teeth, clutching my bump with one hand and the brass stand with the other.
"Agnes, go home!" I gasped out. "I am in labor! The police are on their way!"
"In labor?" Agnes let out a chilling, bitter laugh through the window. "Good! That baby doesn't deserve to be born in my son's house! He's a bastard! A fake!"
Suddenly, the loud screech of tires echoed down the street.
A silver SUV pulled into the driveway at high speed, its high beams illuminating Agnes on the porch. Sarah Jenkins jumped out of the driver's seat, wearing her Army rain parka, holding her service sidearm in its holster.
"Step away from the door right now!" Sarah yelled, her command voice booming across the lawn. "Hands where I can see them!"
Agnes spun around, blinking blindly into the high beams. "Who are you?! Get off this property!"
Sarah didn't argue. She marched up the porch steps, grabbed Agnes by the arm, forced her down onto the wet wooden deck, and pinned her wrists behind her back with expert military precision.
"Agnes Ashby," Sarah growled, pressing her knee into Agnes's shoulder. "You are under arrest for trespassing, harassment, and violation of a protection order."
Two Monterey police cruisers pulled into the driveway seconds later, their blue and red lights flashing wildly through the rain.
The heavy front door swung open. I stood in the threshold, leaning against the frame, pale and sweating, but holding my head high.
Two police officers rushed up the steps, taking custody of Agnes from Sarah. Agnes thrashing and screaming obscenities as they dragged her down the walkway toward the patrol car.
"Sloane!" Sarah rushed over, supporting my weight as another wave of labor pain hit me. "Are you okay?!"
"The contractions... are three minutes apart, Sarah," I gasped, managing a small, triumphant smile through the pain. "Let's go... let's go meet my son."
Sarah carefully helped me down the steps to her SUV.
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As the patrol car drove away with Agnes in the backseat—her face staring out the rain-slicked window in total, pathetic ruin—I climbed into Sarah's vehicle, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.
The storm outside was roaring. But inside my heart, the war was finally over.
