Chapter 15 - The Intruders in the Fog
The darkness inside the safehouse felt absolute, heavy and suffocating like wet wool. I pressed my back against the hallway wall, my breathing shallow and controlled, my hands trembling as I searched blindly for my phone on the entryway table.
Soft, muffled footsteps padded across the kitchen linoleum. Someone was moving with professional stealth, avoiding the squeaky floorboards with practiced precision.
Where were the federal marshals? The two agents assigned to my detail were stationed in a parked SUV out on the street, but if the breaker box had been tripped, their exterior monitors and radios might have been jammed.
A faint beam of a red-filtered tactical flashlight danced across the living room wall, illuminating the framed seascape paintings in crimson light.
“Clear,” a low, raspy whisper echoed from the kitchen. “Check the back bedrooms.”
I eased backward into the guest bathroom, pulling the heavy wooden door shut until it clicked with the softest possible latch. I locked the deadbolt silently with shaking fingers.
My phone was in my hand. The screen lit up with a blinding blue glare in the dark. I tapped the emergency speed dial for Mara Jenkins, holding my breath as the line began to ring silently.
*Ring... ring... ring...* Please pick up, please pick up—
“Jenkins here,” Mara’s voice whispered instantly on the second ring, wide awake and tense. “Emma? What’s wrong?”
“Mara,” I breathed into the receiver, my voice barely audible. “Someone is inside the safehouse. The power is cut. They’re looking for me.”
“Stay where you are! Do not make a sound!” Mara commanded, her voice fierce. “I am dispatching tactical backup from the nearest field office right now. They are five minutes away. Lock yourself in and don't open the door for anyone!”
Before I could reply, heavy footsteps stopped right outside the bathroom door.
“Check this room,” a gruff voice muttered.
The doorknob turned once. It held fast against the locked deadbolt. A pause followed, thick with tension.
Then, the heavy butt of a firearm smashed violently against the wooden paneling right beside the doorknob, splintering the wood and sending shards flying across the bathroom floor.
“Found a locked door,” the intruder grunted, raising his weapon for a second, heavier strike.
I backed into the corner of the small bathroom, gripping a heavy ceramic lotion dispenser like a weapon, my heart hammering so loudly I was certain they could hear it through the walls.
The second blow crashed into the door, splitting the frame wide open. A masked face peered through the splintered opening into the dark bathroom, scanning the room with cold, merciless eyes.
As the intruder raised his pistol toward my corner, the front windows of the safehouse shattered in a deafening crash of breaking glass and flashing red-and-blue tactical strobes.
“Federal Agents! Nobody move!”
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The sound of automatic gunfire erupted through the living room, shouting, and heavy boots swarming the house, saving me from the barrel of the gun by mere seconds.
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