Chapter 6
The front door, which Warren had left ajar in his haste, was pushed open completely.
Sergeant Dale Pierce stepped into the bright foyer. At thirty-seven, Dale was a sharply built, imposing military man. He wore his crisp U.S. Army uniform perfectly, his fair and rosy face set in an expression of absolute, grim professionalism. He had driven the Colonel home from the base, waiting in the car until he heard the shouting and the crash of shattered porcelain.
"Colonel Shaw," Sergeant Pierce announced, his deep American voice cutting through the hysterical tension of the kitchen. "Are we secure in here, sir?"
"Far from it, Sergeant," Warren replied, not taking his eyes off Jonas and Pamela. "We have a medical emergency. And we have three hostiles."
Dale stepped fully into the kitchen, his boots avoiding the broken dishes. He looked at Maeve crying on the floor, then at Rex bleeding by the dining table. He did not ask questions. He simply raised his right hand.
In Sergeant Pierce’s grip was a thick, transparent, sealed plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag rested a small, black, rectangular device. A tiny red LED light on the top of the device was still active, blinking steadily in the bright sunlight.
"Sir," Dale said, holding the bag up for Warren to see. "I pulled this from the hidden compartment in the living room bookshelf on my way in, exactly as you requested yesterday. The internal battery is still running. The audio and video feed has been recording the kitchen and the living room continuously for the past forty-eight hours."
Warren looked at the evidence bag. A cold, terrifying silence descended upon the room. He slowly turned his head toward Jonas and Pamela.
Both of their faces turned deathly pale. The blood drained completely from Pamela’s rosy cheeks, leaving her looking like a terrified ghost. Jonas’s jaw dropped open, his eyes locking onto the blinking red light inside the plastic bag.
"You… you put a camera in our house?" Jonas whispered, his voice vibrating with absolute horror.
"I am a military intelligence officer, Jonas," Warren said, his voice dropping into a frighteningly calm, measured tone. "When my daughter calls me weeping at 3 AM because she is afraid of her husband's sudden temper, I do not ask questions. I take precautions."
Warren took a slow step toward the mother and son, his decorated chest expanding as he drew a breath.
"Shall we watch my daughter 'fall'?" Warren asked.
May you like
Pamela let out a strangled, pathetic gasp, covering her mouth with her hands. The absolute, undeniable proof of their brutal assault was sitting right in front of them. There were no more lies to spin.
"Sergeant Pierce," Warren commanded, not breaking eye contact with the traitors. "Call an ambulance. Tell them it’s a Code 3. Thirty-eight weeks pregnant, blunt force trauma to the abdomen. And then call the local police. Tell them we have three arrests to make for attempted murder."
