Chapter 4 - The Siege of Riverstone
"Get into the cast-iron bathtub," I ordered Elena, pointing down the hallway toward the master bathroom. "Take the girls. Keep your heads down. Do not come out until I tell you to."
Elena didn't argue. She gathered the terrified twins and scrambled down the dark hallway. I heard the heavy bathroom door click shut.
I moved to the front window, pressing my back against the wall, and peeled the curtain back just a fraction of an inch.
Two county sheriff cruisers were parked at angled positions in my driveway, their headlights blindingly bright, illuminating the rain that had just begun to fall. Three men stepped out. They weren't wearing uniforms. They wore dark tactical gear, carrying suppressed AR-15 rifles.
At the center of them stood Sheriff Miller. He was out of uniform too, wearing a heavy hunting jacket, a large revolver strapped to his thigh.
"Vance!" Miller's voice boomed through a megaphone, cutting through the heavy mountain rain. "We know you're in there. And we know the girl is in there. I'm going to make this very simple for you. Send the girl and the brats out with the necklace, and you get to drive back to your fancy corporate life in the city. You resist, and you join your lovely wife at the bottom of the ravine."
My grip tightened on the shotgun until my knuckles turned white. He was standing in my driveway, gloating about murdering my wife.
I didn't shout back. I didn't negotiate. I moved swiftly through the darkness of the cabin, navigating entirely by memory. I went to the breaker box in the kitchen and pulled the main power switch. The cabin was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
"Breach the door!" Miller barked from outside. "Kill him!"
Heavy boots pounded up the wooden steps of the porch. A massive thud rattled the front door. They were using a battering ram. The heavy oak shuddered, but the reinforced deadbolts Sarah had insisted on installing years ago held firm.
THUD.
The door frame began to splinter.
I positioned myself behind the kitchen island, using the thick granite countertop for cover. I leveled the barrel of the shotgun directly at the center of the front door.
CRACK.
The door burst open, swinging violently on broken hinges. Rain and wind howled into the living room. Two tactical flashlights pierced the darkness, sweeping across the sofa and the walls.
"Clear right," one of the men growled, stepping over the threshold.
I didn't wait for them to find my silhouette. I pulled the trigger.
The roar of the 12-gauge in the enclosed space was deafening. The blast caught the first deputy squarely in the chest, sending him flying backward out the door and off the porch into the mud.
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"He's armed! Return fire!" the second deputy screamed.
The cabin erupted into chaos as automatic gunfire shredded the living room. Bullets tore through the leather sofa, shattered the windows, and ripped into the drywall. I ducked behind the granite island, feeling the stone chip and spray dust over my head as the barrage continued.
