Chapter 8 - Ambush in the Marsh
The window glass above Christian’s desk shattered inward in a blinding explosion of crystal shards and flying splinters. Instinct took over before conscious thought could intervene; I lunged across the desk, slamming my body against Christian’s chest and driving both of us hard onto the splintered floorboards just as a second round punched cleanly through the thin cypress wall, burying itself deep into the filing cabinet behind us.
'Get down!' I yelled over the ringing in my ears, scrambling on my knees while keeping my revolver raised toward the shattered window.
Christian didn't panic. He rolled swiftly to his feet, pulling a compact Heckler & Koch pistol from a hidden shoulder holster with terrifying familiarity. 'Sniper on the ridge above the pecan orchard,' he said coolly, his voice devoid of fear, replaced entirely by cold tactical focus. 'Suppressor-equipped rifle, probably firing sub-sonic .308 rounds from the tree line.'
'Who sent them?' I hissed, hugging the low wall beneath the window level.
'Marcus Vance and my uncle’s cleanup crew,' Christian muttered, peering cautiously through a bullet hole in the rotted wood. 'They followed us here. They realized if we pool our evidence, their entire money-laundering pipeline to the syndicate gets exposed before sunrise.'
A third round slammed into the boathouse’s heavy oak support beam, showering us in a cloud of dry, powdery sawdust. We couldn't stay in the shack; if they brought a thermal scope or decided to fire incendiary rounds, we’d be trapped in a wooden coffin.
'There’s a small utility boat moored at the back slip,' I whispered rapidly, pointing toward the rear exit that led directly out over the dark river current. 'It has an electric trolling motor. We can slip out under the dock overhang before they reload.'
'Lead the way,' Christian replied, sliding his pistol safety off with a soft click. 'Stay low and step exactly where I step—the floorboards near the slip are rotted through.'
We moved in synchronized silence through the shadows of the cramped interior, slipping through the rear door into the damp, freezing embrace of the river mist. The water below lapped against the pilings in rhythmic, sinister whispers. I dropped into the aluminum utility boat, sliding onto the bench seat while Christian unhitched the heavy iron mooring chain with absolute, silent precision.
He stepped in behind me, dropping low as he silently engaged the electric trolling motor. The propeller hummed with a faint, almost imperceptible whir as the boat glided smoothly out from beneath the rotted timber overhang into the thick fog of the river.
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As we drifted away into the murky darkness, a bright muzzle flash blossomed on the distant ridge above the pecan orchard, followed a second later by the dull thud of a round splashing harmlessly into the dark water ten feet behind our stern.
We had survived the first strike. But as Christian steered the boat toward the hidden creek inlet leading back to Magnolia Hall, I knew the real war had only just begun.
