Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Garden
By Friday night, the mansion felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb.
The security detail had been doubled. Armed guards in black tactical gear patrolled the perimeter fence every fifteen minutes, and the heavy iron gates remained locked tight, guarded by an armored vehicle parked across the driveway. Inside, the routine continued with agonizing normalcy. I played board games with Finn, read him stories about dragons and knights, and tucked him into bed at eight o’clock, smiling through the crushing terror eating away at my stomach.
When Finn finally fell asleep, I walked down to the massive industrial kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea. The house was dead silent, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant patter of rain striking the glass conservatory roof.
As I waited for the kettle to boil, I noticed the French doors leading out to the stone terrace were slightly ajar.
A cold draft swept into the kitchen, carrying the sharp, metallic scent of rain and... something else. Ozone. Gunpowder.
My instincts, sharpened by months of living among violent men, screamed at me to run. Instead, I grabbed a heavy iron poker from the hearth beside the kitchen fireplace, gripped it with both hands, and crept toward the open doors.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice trembling in the dark.
No answer.
Only the heavy sheets of rain falling across the manicured lawns.
I stepped out onto the terrace. The damp night air chilled my skin instantly through my cotton blouse. I scanned the shadows cast by the towering oak trees near the east wing. Nothing moved except the dripping branches.
Then a red laser dot flickered across the stone paving stones right in front of my feet.
My breath caught. I threw myself sideways, hitting the wet stone as a silenced bullet cracked through the air, shattering the glass pane of the French door right where I had been standing a second earlier.
“Harper!”
A deep, furious roar echoed from the interior hallway. Before I could even register what was happening, a heavy body slammed into mine, shielding me with a wall of muscle and Kevlar.
Victor.
He pinned me to the wet stone floor, his body covering mine completely, his hand drawing a heavy automatic pistol from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion. He fired three rapid shots into the darkness toward the tree line, the deafening concussions ringing in my ears.
“Are you hit?” he demanded, his voice frantic, his chest heaving against mine.
“No—no, I’m okay!” I gasped, my hands gripping his jacket.
“Stay down!”
More guards came pouring out of the side doors, shouting code words into their radios and sweeping the gardens with high-powered tactical flashlights. Searchlights blazed to life along the perimeter walls, turning the rainy night into daylight.
Victor didn't get off me. He kept me shielded beneath his body for a full minute, his face inches from mine, his eyes wild and dark with a rage I had never seen before.
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“They found us,” I whispered, the terror finally breaking through my defenses. “The feds... or Pendelton’s men... they know I’m here.”
“They aren't feds,” Victor said through clenched teeth, his gaze locked onto the smoking barrel of his gun. “Federal marshals don’t use silenced sniper rifles. That was a hit squad.”
