Chapter 3 - Shifting Ground
The grey van cut across the narrow street, tires chewing over the immaculate manicured lawn before slamming to a halt behind Pendelton’s sedan. Two men in dark windbreakers and tactical boots stepped out, their faces obscured by low-profile caps and sunglasses. They didn't move like law enforcement; their movements were swift, predatory, and rehearsed.
Diego instinctively stepped forward, his knuckles whitening around the shovel handle. "Marcus," Diego muttered, his voice dipping low. "Those aren't cops. Not a chance in hell."
"I know," Marcus replied, not taking his eyes off the two men. He raised his hand, signaling the third crew member, an older framer named Hank who was still standing by the curb. "Hank. Get the truck. Block the drive."
Hank didn't question the order. He spun on his heel, sprinting across the street toward the city-contracted dump truck idling near the culvert. The roar of the diesel engine turning over tore through the neighborhood's quiet facade.
Trent backed toward Pendelton, his confidence suddenly turning brittle as he watched the two men advance. He hadn't expected Pendelton to bring private extraction. "Arthur... what is this? We just needed the paperwork."
"Be quiet, Trent," Pendelton snapped, his professional demeanor peeling back to reveal something cold and ruthless. "You lost control of the situation the moment you let her reach the front steps. Now we secure the documents and the collateral before the municipal cruisers arrive."
The first man from the van ignored Marcus entirely, lunging straight for the porch steps with a swiftness that defied his bulk. But Marcus didn't hesitate. Stepping into the man’s path, Marcus drove his shoulder hard into the attacker's chest, the sickening crunch of collision knocking the man off balance onto the concrete walkway. Diego swung the blunt side of the shovel flat against the second man’s knee, forcing him down with a sharp yelp of pain.
"Clara! Inside! Lock the deadbolt!" Marcus roared over his shoulder, dodging a vicious backhand from the first assailant.
Clara scrambled backward, her hands scraping against the wood decking. She fumbled with the heavy brass doorknob, her fingers slick with sweat. The door gave way, and she tumbled into the foyer, slamming the solid oak door shut and throwing both heavy deadbolts just as a violent blow shuddered against the outside panels.
Inside, the house was cool, dim, and smelled of lavender and old paper. Clara sat on the polished parquet floor, her back braced against the door, her chest heaving as she fought off the encroaching dizziness. In the middle of the kitchen island, just as Pendelton had said, lay the blood-red envelope. But beside it sat a small canvas duffel bag—her father's old hunting bag.
May you like
A thud shook the door behind her head. Outside, shouts and the sound of shattering glass erupted from the side window near the garage. Clara dragged herself upright using the wall, her hands instinctively shielding her stomach. She needed to reach the study. Her father had left more than just documents; he had left a safe key taped inside the spine of an old encyclopedia.
Before she could take three steps into the hallway, the sound of splintering wood cracked through the kitchen. The French doors leading to the patio had just caved in.
