Chapter 14 - Breach and Bloodline
The steel blade of the fire axe tore through the center oak stile of the cabin door, spraying jagged shards across the hardwood entry. Freezing wind surged through the jagged opening, catching the lace curtains and turning the hallway into an icy wind tunnel.
"Nolan Vance!" the voice roared again, wet and ragged, fueled by adrenaline and desperation. "Step back or I take her head off!"
I didn't answer. Words were wasted breath in the high timber, and my family was dying behind me.
As the man yanked the axe back to strike a third time, thrusting his burly forearm through the splintered gap to reach for the interior deadbolt, I leveled the Remington 870 at the breach.
"Get your hands off my house," I whispered.
I pulled the trigger.
The 12-gauge roared in the enclosed hallway, the concussion rattling the glass panes and kicking up a blinding cloud of drywall dust and sulfur. The heavy load of 00-buckshot ripped through the wooden door, shredding the wood and the man’s extended arm instantly. A wet, strangled howl cut through the howling gale outside, followed by the heavy, dull thud of a body collapsing against the porch boards.
Behind me, the scream tore out of Eliza’s throat—not in fear of the blast, but from the brutal contraction splitting her pelvis.
"Nolan! The baby... God, Nolan, the head is crowning! I can't hold it back!"
My ears ringing violently from the muzzle blast, I racked another shell into the chamber. I couldn't afford to assume the intruder was alone. I moved forward on low knees, my boots crunching on broken oak and freezing sleet blowing across the threshold. Through the gaping hole in the ruined door, I peered into the swirling whiteout of the porch.
A single man lay slumped in a pool of dark blood that was already smoking in the minus-ten-degree air. It was Grady Finch—one of my mother’s old bookmakers, a violent thug from the Spokane underbelly whom Savannah had used to intimidate local small-business owners. His right arm was mangled, his eyes wide and glassy, chest hitching in shallow, dying gasps. Beside him lay a satellite phone, its green screen blinking with an incoming call from an unlisted number.
There were no other footprints in the snow. He had come alone, reckless and crazed, hunting the mythical cash Savannah claimed I hid under the floorboards to save his own neck from the loan sharks closing in on her defunct empire.
I reached out, shoved the heavy deadbolt into the jamb with a kick, dragged a heavy pine dresser across the hall to barricade the broken opening, and threw my winter parka over the hole to stem the freezing draft.
"I'm here! Eliza, I'm here!" I dropped the shotgun on the kitchen counter, scrubbed my hands furiously with boiling water and disinfectant, and dove to the rug beside her.
Her face was paper-white, sweat gluing dark strands of hair to her forehead and temples, her hands clawing into the sofa cushions. The labor was moving at terrifying speed, driven by the pure terror of the last ten minutes.
"Look at me, sweetheart," I said, my voice steady despite the hammer pounding in my chest. "Just look at my eyes. Grady is dead. Nobody else is out there. It’s just you, me, and our baby. You hear me?"
Tears cut clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks. She gasped, nodding violently, her fingers digging into my forearms so hard I felt the tendons pinch. "He’s coming, Nolan! Push... I have to push!"
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"Then push! I've got you. I'm right here!"
The storm beat mercilessly against the logs, but inside the circle of firelight, time narrowed down to her breath, the strain of her voice, and the overwhelming miracle of life refusing to be snuffed out by the cruelty of the world we had fled.
