Page 4 of Reaper
She doesn't lower the barrel completely, but the tension in her shoulders shifts.
She turns. She doesn't run to the bedroom to pack. She doesn't scramble for shoes or a jacket. She moves straight to the kitchen counter.
She pulls a tactical go-bag out from under the island. Fully packed. Waiting. She's been anticipating a breach.
Then she grabs a heavy, reinforced hardshell external drive.
I clock the movement. The way she holds it. The protective curl of her fingers over the casing.
She drops the drive into the go-bag, prioritizing the data above everything else. The work is her shield, her entire life condensed into a metal box.
Who the hell is this woman?
"Let's go." She slings the heavy bag over her shoulder and turns back to face me.
TWO
Sixty Seconds
ADDY
The sound of a skull shattering isn't something you ever forget. It isn't a clean sound. It's a wet, devastating crack that echoes off the timber of my front porch, louder than the gunshot following it a second later.
One moment, the man in the canvas jacket is raising a suppressed pistol, his eyes locked on my chest. The next, a fine red mist paints the air behind him, and he drops like a marionette with its strings cut.
Blood pools instantly on the gravel driveway, a dark stain against the gray stone.
I don't scream. I can't pull oxygen into my lungs fast enough to make a sound.
I stumble backward, my boots scraping against the threshold. My fingers wrap so tightly around the grip of my Glock 19 that my knuckles ache, but the threat is already dead.
The sniper bullet came from the high ridge to the east. A mile and a half out. An impossible shot.
I back into the house and slam the heavy front door shut, throwing the deadbolt with violently shaking hands.
The adrenaline crash hits instantly. My knees buckle. I lean back against the solid wood, my chest heaving as a terrifying, uncontrollable tremor racks my entire body.
I was supposed to die on that porch. Someone found my sanctuary. They found the data. But someone else saved me.
Breathe, Addy. Breathe.
I force myself off the door. Survival demands movement. I rush to the kitchen island, yanking open the bottom cabinet. I drag my tactical go-bag onto the hardwood floor. It's already half-packed with cash, a change of clothes, and survival gear.
I grab the heavy, reinforced hardshell external drive from the safe under the floorboards. My audit. Fourteen months of tracing offshore shell companies and encrypted crypto transfers. I shove the drive deep into the bag and zip it shut.
I stand in the center of the kitchen, trying to force my erratic breathing to slow. Trying to calm the terror screaming through my veins.
The man on the porch is dead, but the sniper who took the shot is still out there.
Then comes the roar of a dirt bike engine tearing into the driveway. Boots crunch on the gravel.
My heart slams against my ribs. I raise my Glock, aiming it squarely at the center of the door.
CRACK.
The combat boot hits the wood right next to the lock. The frame splinters violently, the deadbolt tearing free from the jamb. The door crashes open, rebounding hard off the interior wall.
The life I built here ends the moment that door splinters.
