On Our Wedding Night, My Husband Thought I Was Hiding Something Beneath My Dress.

The strike didn't wait for morning.

We were three miles from Cross House, passing through the dense, dark corridor of the Ashley River road where ancient live oaks formed a natural canopy over the two-lane highway, when the night exploded.

A heavy logging truck, its headlights completely dark, pulled out from a hidden logging trail directly into the path of our lead security vehicle. The impact was deafening—a crunch of metal and shattering glass that sent the black SUV tumbling into the ditch in a ball of flame.

"Ambush!" Marcus roared from the front passenger seat. "Hold on!"

Our driver slammed on the brakes, the armored Maybach fishtailing on the wet asphalt before slamming to a halt. Behind us, two black pickup trucks screeched to a halt, boxing us in from the rear.

Automatic gunfire erupted instantly, lighting up the Spanish moss like strobe lights. Bullets pinged harmlessly off the reinforced glass of the Mercedes, sounding like violent hail.

"Stay down!" Adrian commanded, shoving my head toward the floorboards and covering my body with his own. He pulled a custom Glock 19 from his shoulder holster, his voice cold and steady into his lapel radio. "Code Red on Ashley River Road. All units converge. Repeat, Code Red."

"Boss, the fuel tank's breached!" Marcus shouted, returning fire through the armored gun port in the passenger door. "We can't stay in the car! They have RPGs!"

"Out the left side into the tree line!" Adrian yelled. "Move!"

Marcus kicked his door open, firing in short, controlled bursts to clear a perimeter. Adrian grabbed my wrist with an iron grip, kicking his own door open and pulling me down into the muddy ditch beside the road.

The smell of gunpowder and burning rubber filled the damp night air. In the headlights of the burning lead SUV, I saw men advancing through the trees—six, eight, ten armed mercenaries wearing tactical gear and Mercer insignia patches.

And walking behind them, holding an assault rifle with a manic, triumphant grin on his face, was Blake.

"Come out, sister!" Blake’s voice echoed through the woods, magnified by a bullhorn. "Conrad sends his regards! You were always a terrible investment, Sloane, but your funeral is going to pay out forty million in Cross maritime insurance!"

"Marcus, cover the left flank," Adrian whispered, his eyes scanning the tree line with lethal precision. "Sloane, stay behind this oak. If anything happens to me, run toward the river. There's a fishing shack half a mile down. The radio inside is tuned to channel nine."

"I am not leaving you," I hissed, my evening gown soaked in black marsh mud, the Cross emeralds heavy against my dirt-streaked neck.

"Sloane—"

"Give me the backup piece," I demanded, pointing to the ankle holster visible beneath his cuff. "I told you, Adrian. I spent seven years learning how they operate. Blake won't come up the center. He's a coward. He’s going to send his men to pin you down while he flanks through the creek bed on the right."

Adrian looked at me, a sudden, fierce pride flaring in his eyes. Without a word, he unstrapped the small .380 automatic from his ankle and pressed it into my hand.

"Double action," he said. "Point and squeeze. Don't hesitate."

"I won't."

The mercenaries opened up with a concentrated volley of fire, chewing through the bark of the live oaks above us. Adrian leaned out from behind the massive trunk, firing four rapid shots. Two men dropped instantly into the marsh grass.

Just as I predicted, the brush along the dry creek bed to our right began to rustle.

Blake was creeping through the palmettos, his rifle raised, his attention entirely focused on Adrian’s position behind the oak. He was five yards away from me, his face twisted in a sneer of murderous anticipation.

He didn't see me rise from the mud.

"Blake," I said.

My brother spun around, his rifle swinging toward me. But he was too slow. For the first time in twelve years, I didn't see my abuser, my master, or my family. I only saw a rabid animal that needed to be put down.

I raised the .380 with both hands, steady as stone, and pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the night air. The bullet caught Blake high in the right shoulder, spinning him around and knocking the assault rifle from his grip into the mud.

Blake screamed in agony, clutching his shattered shoulder as he collapsed onto his knees in the creek bed.

"You shot me!" he wailed, his voice shrinking back into the pathetic, petulant whine of a spoiled boy. "Sloane, you shot me! I’m your brother!"

"You stopped being my brother the day you gave me these," I said, walking toward him through the brush, the gun still leveled at his chest.

Behind us, the sirens began to wail—a dozen Cross security cruisers tearing down Ashley River Road, their high beams sweeping through the trees, cutting down the remaining mercenaries in a coordinated sweep.

Adrian appeared beside me. He didn't look at Blake. He looked at me, his eyes sweeping over my mud-stained gown, my steady hands, and the cold, unyielding fire in my eyes.

He placed his hand gently over mine, lowering the weapon.

"Leave him," Adrian said softly. "The police are behind us. Conrad Mercer's suite at Saint Jude's was raided ten minutes ago by federal marshals. The ammonium nitrate was seized. It's over, Sloane. They have nowhere left to run."

Blake looked up at us from the mud, weeping in terror as the red and blue emergency lights washed over his bloody face.

"Sloane, please..." Blake begged. "Tell them it was Conrad! Tell them he made me do it!"

I turned my back on him, stepping up onto the dry pavement where Adrian wrapped his heavy, warm wool overcoat around my shoulders.