Chapter 5 - Blood on the Snow
"Claire!" I scrambled to her side, catching her before she slid out of the rocking chair.
"It's too early..." she sobbed, panic finally breaking her icy composure as another contraction racked her frame. "It's barely thirty-two weeks... Daniel, something's wrong!"
Outside, the crack of a high-calibrated rifle shattered the night silence, followed immediately by the roar of gunfire.
Michael's voice burst through my radio unit: "Boss! We’ve got company! Vincent's main strike team tracked our SUVs! They're flanking the cabin from the east!"
The cabin windows shattered inward as bullets strafed the upper wood beams. I threw my body over Claire, shielding her from the falling glass and wood splinters.
"Listen to me," I barked into the radio, pulling my secondary firearm. "Draw them toward the lake! Do not let a single round touch this cabin!"
Claire screamed in pain, clutching my shirt with a white-knuckled grip. "Daniel... the baby... she’s coming now!"
I looked into her terrified eyes. There was no hospital. No ambulance could navigate these icy back roads in time with an active firefight blocking the lane.
"Claire, look at me," I said, cupping her face with trembling hands, wiping away her tears. "Look at me! I am not leaving you. I am not letting anything happen to our daughter. Do you hear me?"
"I'm scared," she wept.
"I know. I know, baby. But you are the strongest person I have ever known."
I laid clean blankets from the closet onto the rug by the fire, lifting her gently into position. Outside, the gunfire grew deafening—explosions of timber and hand grenades echoing through the valley as Michael and my loyal guards held the line.
A heavy footstep thudded on the back porch. The rear door was kicked off its hinges.
A mercenary clad in tactical gear stepped into the kitchen area, raising an assault rifle toward Claire.
Without hesitation, I stood up, stepped between the barrel and my wife, and fired three rounds point-blank into the intruder's vest. He stumbled back, but returned fire—a single bullet tearing through my left shoulder, spinning me backward.
"Daniel!" Claire shrieked.
Ignore the pain. Ignore the blood soaking through my shirt.
I rushed the man, tackling him out onto the snowy porch, wrestling the weapon from his hands, and neutralizing him in the freezing slush.
I didn't pause to feel the cold. I staggered back inside, kicked the door shut, and barred it with a heavy oak bench.
Breathing heavily, bleeding from my shoulder, I dropped back to my knees at Claire’s feet.
"It's just you and me, Claire," I choked out, throwing my bloodied jacket aside and sanitizing my hands with a bottle of high-proof whiskey from the mantel. "Push!"
For forty terrifying minutes, while snow fell through the broken roof and the sounds of war raged outside, Claire fought for our daughter's life. She screamed, she pulled my hair, she squeezed my hand until my fingers were numb.
And at 5:42 AM, as the gunfire outside finally fell silent, a tiny, frail cry pierced the cold cabin air.
I held our daughter in my hands—tiny, blue-tinted, breathing thin, shallow breaths, but alive.
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Claire collapsed back against the pillows, tears streaming down her exhausted face. "Is she... is she breathing?"
"She's breathing," I sobbed, wrapping the infant in warm, dry flannel and laying her gently against Claire's chest. I sank to my forehead against Claire's knee, weeping uncontrollably. "She's breathing."
