Page 15 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

As she turned the key, the engine gave a tired, clicking groan. Margaret tried again, a surge of anxiety creeping in. More clicks followed, but the engine stubbornly refused to start. The dashboard lights flickered weakly, then died.

Panic began to coil in her stomach as she tried a third time, her heart racing. Nothing. Absolute silence. Her used Camry was as dead as her previous life.

Just as cold dread began to set in, Dog appeared at her window, looking down at her with a concerned frown. “Everything alright, Margaret?”

She looked up at him, her carefully constructed facade crumbling again, the image of perfection marred by helpless frustration. “No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “My car…it won’t start.”

10 - DOG

The crack of the gunshot tore through the afternoon quiet, shredding the driver’s side window of the Camry into a million glittering pieces that rained down like deadly confetti. The echo reverberated in Dog’s ears.

Dog didn’t think; he reacted. Instinct, honed by years of combat, seized control of his heavy frame. He slammed himself over Margaret, shielding her body with his own as they tumbled into the gritty dirt of the street. His eyes, despite the chaos, swept the immediate surroundings: rooftops, distant tree lines, every shadow a potential threat. One shot. Suppressed, by the sound of it. No follow-up yet. The shooter was either repositioning, or they misjudged, missing the clean kill.

“Dr. Berkshire…” Margaret gasped, her voice raw and thin with sheer terror, struggling to draw breath beneath his pressing form as he shielded her.

“Quiet. Stay down,” Dog barked, the command a low growl of absolute authority that brooked no argument. His hand clamped around the collar of her shirt, the other gripping her arm like a vise. “On my mark, we move to my truck. Do not stand up.”

“Okay,” she stammered, her entire body vibrating with fear.

“Move!”

He didn’t lift her; he hoisted her, an abrupt, powerful movement that kept her tucked tight against his chest. He practically carried her, half-dragging, half-supporting, the thirty yards to his matte black SUV. The back-seat door groaned open under his fierce wrench; he shoved her inside with a grunt, and slammed it shut. The heavy, satisfying thud of the armored door locking into place was the best sound he had heard all morning, a solid, reassuring thunk against the backdrop of still-ringing silence. As he settled into the driver’s seat and punched the ignition, a brief, grim thought flickered through his mind: thank God he had paid for all the upgrades on this beast; if it was safe enough for the damn President himself, it was definitely safe enough to keep them alive now.

The SUV roared to life, its engine a deep, powerful growl that vibrated though the floorboards. Dog glanced over at Margaret. She was pressed against the door, knees drawn up to her chest, shoulders trembling as her breaths came fast and shallow, ragged little gasps in the confined space.

Her wide eyes flicked around the interior, unfocused and searching, like a trapped bird seeking an escape, as if trying to make sense of a storm she couldn’t see, or worse, one she refused to believe was real. She bit her lower lip so hard it threatened to bleed, then let out a shaky, barely audible whisper. “Why did you push me down? What was that? Where are we going?”

Dog studied her: the way her hands trembled uncontrollably, how her polished nails dug white crescent moons into the fabric of her expensive slacks. This was a woman used to order, to control, and now every bit of it was slipping through her fingers. He softened his voice, steadying himself into a pillar of calm so she could cling to something solid. “There’s no time to explain. Just trust me.”

As he gripped the steering wheel, a flicker of incredulity, hot and sharp, crossed his mind. What kind of mess has she brought right to his doorstep? Whatever it was, that chaos was now his problem. And he wasn’t about to let it take either of them down. Not on his watch.

“Breathe, Margaret,” Dog commanded, his voice shifting effortlessly into his calm, steady medic tone, a stark contrast to the coiled tension in his body. His eyes darted between the rearview and side mirrors, meticulously checking for a tail. “Someone shot at us, shattered your driver’s side window. I’m getting us to a safe place. Then we can talk.”

Margaret’s breath hitched, her body frozen as if the world had suddenly slipped off its axis. Her eyes widened, struggling to comprehend the words that just came out of Dr. Berkshire’s mouth. Her words suddenly came out, a high-pitched screech, “What?! A gunshot??” The polished, controlled woman was miles away, replaced by someone utterly unmoored, grappling to understand the raw, sudden violence thrust upon her.

Dog shook his head, trying to get his ears to stop ringing after that shriek. He kept his eyes on the road.

“This is preposterous,” Margaret stated, her voice suddenly stiff, regaining a brittle edge of indignation. “I demand to know what is happening. This vehicle is positively…utilitarian. Do you not have proper climate control? And these turns are quite aggressive. I’m feeling rather unwell.” She clutched her expensive handbag to her chest, her chin lifting defiantly, as if confronting a poorly trained chauffeur.

Dog spared her a single, incredulous glance in the rearview mirror. “I’m driving you away from a sniper, Margaret. Comfort is not currently my top priority.”

Keeping his eyes on the road, his voice dropped to a quieter, more serious tone, devoid of any soothing cadence. “Margaret, who are you running from?”

She flinched violently at the directness of the question, her hands tightening on her knees as if trying to hold herself physically together. For a long, agonizing moment, she said nothing, the only sound the hum of the armored SUV. Then, barely above a whisper, a confession wrenched from her lips: “My husband. He’s dangerous.”

Dog’s grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles went white. He hadn’t needed her to say it outright to piece together the deadly puzzle, but hearing it confirmed the treacherous undercurrent of danger she’d been trying so desperately to hide. He glanced at her again, noting the tension still crackling in her posture, the haunted flicker in her eyes.

Dog fished his phone out of his tactical pants pocket and quickly hit the speed dial for Bear. Before his friend could utter a greeting, Dog’s voice cut through the line, sharp and urgent: “Code Red, Bear. I’m coming in hot with a package.”

Bear didn’t ask questions. He simply answered, his voice equally swift and devoid of emotion: “Copy that, Dog. Gates are open, I’ll get everyone to safety.” The line went dead.

The drive to Mountain View Farms was a blur, Dog’s focus absolute, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigated a route designed to shake any tail. By the time he pulled through the heavy iron gates, which slid silently open then clanged shut behind them like a fortress, Margaret was pale and trembling violently; all textbook signs of shock.

Bear and Moose were already waiting in the circular driveway, two formidable figures in tactical vests, rifles slung over their chests, their expressions grim. Bear rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin thoughtfully, scanning the road behind them with the steady gaze of a man who carried not just the team’s safety but the weight of his own family’s future. Moose crossed his massive arms, his expression darkening, but there was a new softness in the set of his eyes, an unspoken reminder of Elena waiting for him at home.

Dog threw the SUV into park and stepped out, the cool morning air a sharp contrast to the heat of the vehicle.

“We have everyone in their safe rooms, and Link is monitoring all the security systems. Is she okay?” Bear asked, his eyes meticulously scanning the road behind them, a silent sentinel.