Chapter 8: The Siege of Tacoma
"Get up! Maya, get up now!"
Ryan burst into the bedroom, flipping the heavy mattress over entirely, creating a makeshift barricade against the far wall away from the windows. Maya shrieked, waking in utter terror as she scrambled to grab Oliver from the portable crib.
"What is it? Ryan, what's happening?" she panicked, clutching the crying toddler to her chest.
"They found us. Get behind the mattress and keep your head down!"
Ryan didn't wait for her to move. He sprinted out of the bedroom and down the narrow hallway just as the front door of the safe house exploded inward. The concussive blast blew the windows out of their frames, showering the living room in lethal shards of glass.
The two federal agents stationed in the living room didn't even have time to draw their weapons before a barrage of suppressed gunfire cut them down. The muted thwip-thwip-thwip of the silenced automatic weapons sounded like violent rain against the drywall.
Ryan threw himself behind the kitchen island, his heart hammering in his throat like a trapped bird. The acrid smell of smoke and cordite filled the air.
Heavy, tactical boots crunched over the broken glass. Three men dressed in completely unmarked black tactical gear entered the living room, moving with terrifying, military precision.
"Clear the downstairs," a calm, authoritative voice ordered. It was the voice from the phone. Silas. "Find the ledger. If you see the son, drop him. The mother wants the grandson alive."
She wants Oliver.
A primal, violent rage ignited in Ryan’s chest, overriding his terror. He wasn't a soldier. He was a corporate executive who spent his days looking at spreadsheets and attending board meetings. But he was also a father. And these men were here to take his son to a monster.
Ryan looked frantically around the kitchen. Knives. Boiling water on the stove. Nothing that could stop a man with an assault rifle. His eyes darted to the gas stove.
He reached up, turning all four dials to maximum. The hiss of natural gas immediately filled the small space. He then grabbed a heavy, cast-iron skillet from the drying rack.
Footsteps approached the kitchen entrance. A tactical flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating the dust and smoke.
As the mercenary stepped around the corner of the island, Ryan swung the cast-iron skillet with every ounce of strength he possessed. The heavy metal connected with the side of the man's tactical helmet with a sickening CRACK.
The mercenary grunted, staggering sideways and dropping his rifle. Ryan didn't hesitate. He tackled the man around the waist, driving them both into the drywall. The mercenary was much stronger, throwing a brutal elbow into Ryan’s ribs, winding him instantly.
"Got one in the kitchen!" the mercenary yelled, pulling a combat knife from his chest rig.
Ryan scrambled backward, grabbing the microwave off the counter and hurling it at the man’s legs, buying himself two seconds.
"Maya! The window!" Ryan screamed at the top of his lungs.
He grabbed the metal toaster, yanked the cord from the wall, and threw it directly at the front window where Silas and the other man were standing. As it flew, Ryan grabbed a box of matches from the counter, struck one, and tossed it toward the gas stove.
Ryan dove out of the kitchen and rolled down the hallway just as the gas ignited.
The explosion wasn't massive, but it was enough to blow the kitchen island forward in a fireball of blue and orange flame, knocking the remaining mercenaries off their feet.
Ryan scrambled into the bedroom. Maya had already shattered the reinforced glass of the back window with a heavy lamp and was climbing through, shielding Oliver's head.
"Go, go, go!" Ryan pushed her through the window, diving out immediately after her into the muddy, rain-soaked backyard.
They scrambled over the wooden fence just as Agent Reynolds’ backup vehicles came screeching down the suburban street, sirens blaring. Gunfire erupted between the arriving FBI agents and Silas’s men inside the burning house.
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Ryan grabbed Maya’s hand, pulling her into the dark alleyway behind the houses, running blindly into the night, away from the sirens, away from the flames. They had survived, but the illusion of safety was shattered forever. The federal government couldn't protect them.
Evelyn's reach was too long. If they wanted to survive, they had to stop running. They had to hunt her back.
