Chapter 6 - The Midnight Visitor at the Farmhouse
The wind howled down from the Cascade Mountains, rattling the double-paned storm windows of the farmhouse. I sat in my rocking chair by the woodstove, a heavy woolen blanket draped over my shoulders, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
My side throbbed where Marcus had struck me, a dull, bruising ache that reminded me every second of the betrayal I had nurtured for forty years.
Outside, parked near the edge of the gravel drive, Deputy Sheriff Miller sat in his marked cruiser, his headlights dark against the pitch-black night. Captain Vance had taken my safety seriously, leaving a rotating patrol unit outside my gate.
At 12:45 AM, the motion floodlights facing the western pasture suddenly flared to blinding white life.
I didn't panic. I stood up slowly, leaning on my carved maple walking cane, and walked quietly to the hallway monitor. The exterior camera showed Deputy Miller stepping out of his cruiser, his flashlight sweeping across the treeline where a deer had likely tripped the sensor.
“Everything’s fine, Deputy,” I whispered to myself, watching the screen.
Then, something went wrong.
On screen, a dark, silent figure dropped from the lower branches of the old oak tree directly behind Deputy Miller’s cruiser. There was no struggle, no shout—just a muffled thud, a flash of silver wire, and the deputy went limp like a discarded sack of flour, collapsing silently into the wet grass.
My heart skipped a beat. Professional operatives. Not local thugs. Viktor Petrov’s cleanup crew.
I didn't hesitate. I hobbled quickly to the master bedroom, unlocked the heavy floor safe hidden beneath the braided rug, and pulled out Arthur’s old military-issue Remington 870 shotgun along with a box of heavy brass-cased shells.
My hands didn't shake. Forty years of ranch life taught you how to handle predators—whether they walked on four legs or two.
The front door lock clicked with a soft, metallic *snick*.
They didn't pick the lock with tools; they used a high-frequency digital bypass box that emulated my smart-lock’s master frequency. The deadbolt slid back on its own.
Two men stepped into the dark hallway, dressed head-to-toe in tactical black, balaclavas hiding their faces, suppressors fitted to the ends of their submachine guns.
“Sweep the kitchen,” the taller one muttered in a low, raspy whisper. “Check the back bedroom. Petrov wants her signing the trust transfer documents before sunrise, or she goes out feet first.”
They moved with military precision, boots gliding silently across the hardwood floors.
I stood in the shadows of the hallway corridor just outside my bedroom door, the cold steel of the shotgun resting firmly against my hip.
“Looking for me, boys?” I asked loudly into the quiet darkness.
Both operatives whipped around instantly, their weapon barrels swinging toward my voice with terrifying speed. But they were a fraction of a second too late.
I pulled both triggers.
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The dual blast of buckshot tore through the hallway drywall above their heads, showering them in splintered wood and blinding plaster dust while the deafening roar rattled the windows through the entire house.
“Drop your weapons!” I commanded, racking the slide with a sharp, metallic *clack-chack* that echoed like thunder in the enclosed space. “Or the next round goes straight through your chest plates!”
