Chapter 8 - The Breach
Elena pressed her daughter tightly against her chest, retreating into the deepest corner of the bedroom. The cottage had no back exit from the bedrooms—only the narrow hallway leading toward the kitchen where the intruder had entered.
Her hand searched frantically along the bedside table, finding her father's heavy brass-weighted magnifying stand. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was all she had.
"Elena?"
A low, gravelly voice echoed down the hall. It wasn't Marcus. It was rougher, cold and professional.
"Make this easy. We just want the crate. The boss doesn't care about you or the kid, but the canvas doesn't leave this county."
Elena didn't answer. She could hear Clara whimpering, feeling the baby's tiny heart hammering against her ribs. She placed her palm gently over Clara's mouth, muffling the sound with the soft fabric of her sleeve, praying the baby would stay quiet.
Footsteps moved past the bedroom door, heading straight toward the glowing ultraviolet light in the living room.
Elena saw her opening. The front door was barely fifteen feet down the hall to the left.
Taking a silent, deep breath, she stepped out of the bedroom in her bare feet. She moved like a phantom across the wooden floorboards, keeping her back pressed against the wall. Through the living room archway, she saw a tall man dressed in dark tactical gear, his back turned to her, staring down at the glowing canvas on the easel.
He was holding a radio to his collar. "Found it. The crate is open, looks like she was working on—"
Elena dashed for the front door.
Her foot caught a loose floorboard that creaked violently under her weight.
The man spun around instantly. "Hey!"
Elena yanked the front door open, throwing herself out into the freezing coastal night just as the man’s heavy hand snatched at the hood of her cardigan. The fabric tore with a loud rip. She stumbled down the porch steps, landing hard on one knee on the gravel, protecting Clara with her entire body.
Pain shot through her C-section scar, a blinding white agony that nearly made her black out.
"Get up!" the man barked, stepping off the porch, reaching down to grab her arm.
Blinding headlights suddenly erupted from the driveway.
An engine roared at maximum throttle. A black sedan tore around the gravel bend, smashing directly into the intruder’s parked SUV before skidding to a halt three feet from where Elena knelt.
The driver's door flew open. A man stepped out, raising a handgun with terrifying, practiced speed.
"Step away from her," Julian Cross commanded, his voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "Now."
Behind Julian, two uniformed state troopers stepped out from a second vehicle, weapons drawn. The intruder raised his hands slowly, cursing under his breath.
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Elena collapsed against the cold gravel, Clara crying loudly in her arms, safe. But as Julian rushed to help her up, his face was pale with dread.
"Elena," Julian said urgently, helping her into the warmth of the sedan. "We have a massive problem. Marcus just filed an emergency petition for Clara's physical custody, alleging kidnapping and emotional instability. And he has a judge on his payroll who just signed the warrant."
