A four-year-old girl took Seat 3B beside me, looked into my silver-gray eyes, and casually revealed a name that made me realize the daughter I never knew I had was sitting inches away from me.

“Get behind the sofa,” I whispered, my voice cutting through the dark like ice.

Emma didn't argue. She instantly scooped up the sleeping Lily, crouching low behind the thick leather sofa in the center of the room.

I moved silently across the hardwood floor toward the front window, keeping my body hidden beneath the wooden sill. I parted the heavy curtains by a fraction of an inch, peeking out into the pouring rain.

Two black tactical SUVs were parked at the foot of the dirt driveway, their headlights turned off.

Four men dressed in dark, rain-slicked tactical gear were advancing up the porch steps, holding suppressed handguns raised in low-ready positions.

They weren't airport goons. These were high-level mercenaries—the private military arm of Sterling Global.

My heart was hammering against my ribs, but the sheer panic I had felt at the airport was gone. It had been replaced by a cold, calculating clarity.

They were here to take my daughter. They were here to destroy my family.

And I was going to kill anyone who tried.

“Emma,” I whispered, dropping back down to my knees and crawling over to her. “Arthur kept a gun in the floor safe beneath the master bed. Take Lily, lock yourselves in the bathroom, and do not open that door for anyone except me.”

Emma grabbed my coat, her dark eyes wide with terror. “Liam, no! They’re trained killers! You can't fight them!”

“This is my house tonight,” I said, resting my hand on her cheek, my silver-gray eyes burning with absolute conviction. “I spent two years helping Arthur build this cabin. I know every plank of wood, every loose floorboard, every crawlspace. I am not letting them take her.”

I kissed her forehead, then leaned down and kissed Lily’s soft cheek.

I sprinted down the dark hallway into the master bedroom. I pulled back the rug, entered the four-digit combination Arthur had given me years ago, and lifted the iron hatch.

Inside lay a heavy Remington 12-gauge shotgun and two boxes of tactical buckshot shells.

I loaded four shells into the tube, racked the slide with a heavy, terrifying CRACK-CRACK, and slipped into the shadows of the hallway.

BOOM!

The heavy oak front door was kicked off its hinges, splintering violently into the living room.

Four flashlights cut through the darkness, their bright white beams scanning the furniture, the kitchen counter, the stone fireplace.

“Clear the ground floor,” a harsh voice commanded from the entryway. “Find the girl. The boss wants the father dead on sight.”

I stepped out from the hallway shadows into the living room frame.

“Looking for me?” I said.

The lead mercenary spun his flashlight toward me—

BOOM!

The Remington roared in the enclosed space. The blast of buckshot caught the lead man full in the chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward through the shattered front door.

The remaining three men instantly opened fire, suppressed gunshots whistling through the air, chewing up the wooden walls and shattering the glass windows into a shower of sparkling fragments.

I dived behind the thick stone fireplace, plaster and wood dust raining down on my head.

“Flank him!” the commander roared.

I racked the shotgun slide, ejecting the spent red shell, and fired blindly around the stone corner—BOOM!

A mercenary screamed as the pellets tore through his shoulder, dropping his weapon onto the hardwood floor.

I didn't give them time to regroup. I slid around the stone pillar, coming up low.

The third mercenary raised his handgun, but I rammed the heavy steel barrel of the shotgun into his jaw, shattering his teeth. He stumbled backward, and I brought the butt of the stock down onto his collarbone, dropping him like a sack of bricks.

The final man—the commander—grabbed me from behind, wrapping a heavy arm around my throat in a crushing chokehold.

My shotgun clattered to the floor.

Air fled my lungs. The world began to spot with black dots as he squeezed his elbow tight against my windpipe.

“You should have stayed buried, architect,” the commander hissed in my ear, raising his handgun to my temple.

Through the haze of oxygen deprivation, I reached into my coat pocket, my fingers wrapping around Arthur’s heavy steel framing hammer that I had grabbed from the floor safe.

With the last burst of strength in my body, I drove the claw end of the steel hammer backward into the commander’s kneecap.

CRUNCH.

The commander let out an agonizing scream, his grip loosening instantly.

I broke free, spun around, and brought the hammer down with full force onto his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs and sending him crashing to the floor.

I gasped frantically for air, clutching my throat, my body trembling with adrenaline as I stood over the four incapacitated men lying across the ruined living room floor.

Silence descended over the cabin, broken only by the sound of the rain lashing against the broken windows.

I picked up the commander’s suppressed handgun from the floor, racking the slide to ensure a round was chambered.

I walked over to the commander, who was clutching his shattered knee, groaning in agony on the rug. I pressed the cold steel barrel of the gun directly against the bridge of his nose.

“Who sent you?” I growled, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Marcus Sterling?”

The commander spat blood onto the rug, letting out a raspy, painful laugh.

“Marcus Sterling?” the commander choked out, his eyes wide with dark amusement. “You think Marcus Sterling gives a damn about a runaway daughter?”

I frowned, my grip tightening on the weapon. “What are you talking about?”

“Marcus Sterling died three weeks ago in a Swiss hospital,” the commander rasped, a bloody smile spreading across his face. “He’s dead, you fool. He left his entire twelve-billion-dollar empire to his only blood grandchild... Lily.”