Chapter 7 - Ambush at the Manor
The roar of automatic gunfire vibrated through the floorboards. Plaster dust exploded from the walls, raining down on us like heavy snow. Books were shredded off the shelves, raining paper torn to shreds across the dark study.
David didn't hesitate. With practiced precision, he drew a sleek, black semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster.
“Stay down, Sarah! Don't move!” he yelled over the deafening noise.
Through the rising smoke, two tall figures dressed in black tactical gear and wearing full-face ballistic masks burst through the shattered french doors. They moved with military precision, their rifles raised, sweeping the room.
“Where are the drives? Find the drives!” one of the men barked in a thick, foreign accent.
They weren't common burglars. They were professional fixers—sent by Ethan’s offshore partners to burn the evidence before the FBI could secure the house.
David peeked around the corner of the heavy oak desk, fired three rapid shots—BANG! BANG! BANG!—striking the first gunman square in the chest armor. The man stumbled backward with a grunt, dropping his rifle.
The second gunman swung his weapon toward the desk, spraying a hail of bullets that chewed into the heavy mahogany wood, sending sharp splinters flying into the air.
David ducked back, ejected his empty magazine, and slammed a fresh one into his pistol with a crisp CLICK.
“They came for the SD cards!” David grunted, his face covered in white drywall dust. “They must have had a tracker on the house!”
I looked down at my hands. The micro-SD cards were sitting on the floor just three feet away, lying in a pile of broken glass and shredded book pages. If they got those cards, Emily’s sacrifice would be buried forever.
Ignoring the terrifying roar of gunfire, I crawled on my stomach across the glass-littered floor, reaching out with my trembling right hand. Glass sliced into my palm, blood dripping onto the rug, but I didn't feel the pain.
My fingers wrapped tightly around the small plastic cards.
“I got them!” I gasped.
“Sarah, no!” David screamed.
The remaining gunman kicked the oak desk aside, leaning over with his rifle pointed straight at my head. His dark eyes glinted with cold malice behind his mask.
“Hand them over, old woman,” he growled, raising his weapon.
BANG!
A heavy gunshot echoed from the hallway outside the study.
The gunman’s eyes widened. A small red stain bloomed across his throat, and he collapsed sideways onto the shattered coffee table, motionless.
Standing in the doorway of the study was Michael Reeves.
His expensive grey suit was disheveled, his tie undone, and in his hands he held a heavy twelve-gauge shotgun he had pulled from the estate’s gun safe in the hallway.
Michael’s hands were shaking violently, his face pale as chalk, but his posture was firm.
“Are you alright, Sarah?” Michael gasped, lowering the smoking barrel.
David quickly stood up, checking the pulse of the fallen men, then turned back to us. “We have to go. Right now. They’ll have secondary teams monitoring the perimeter.”
David grabbed my arm, helping me up from the floor. I thrust the bloody SD cards into Michael’s hand.
“Take them,” I commanded, my voice cold and unyielding despite the adrenaline surging through my veins. “Get them to the Federal Prosecutor’s office in Washington before nightfall. Do not trust local authorities. Do not trust anyone.”
Michael looked at the bloody memory cards, then up at me with deep determination. “I’ll drive directly to the Department of Justice myself. I have a contact on the Task Force.”
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Ten minutes later, as emergency sirens wailed in the distance, David drove my car out through the back gates of the estate into the dark, rainy night, while Michael vanished down the side roads in his reinforced SUV.
The war had officially begun.
