Chapter 8
The attack came at 3:00 AM on the fifth night.
It didn't start with an explosion, but with a sudden, suffocating silence. The hum of the compound’s massive generator abruptly cut off, plunging the entire house into pitch blackness. A split second later, the red emergency lighting flickered to life, casting bloody, sinister shadows across the walls.
Amara jolted awake in her bed, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. She didn't scream. Her hand shot under her pillow, her fingers wrapping around the cold, textured grip of the 9mm Silas had given her.
She threw off the covers and sprinted across the hall to Elijah’s room. The boy was sitting up in bed, crying in confusion at the sudden red lights.
"Amara!" he wailed, reaching for her.
"Shh, baby, I'm here," Amara whispered urgently, scooping him up with one arm. She pressed a finger to his lips. "We have to be very quiet. We're going to play hide and seek."
Elijah sniffled, nodding bravely. "Hide from the bad men?"
"Yes," she breathed, kissing his forehead.
Gunfire erupted outside. It wasn't the rhythmic popping of handguns, but the heavy, terrifying stutter of automatic rifles. The compound was under siege. Marcus had found them.
Amara carried Elijah to the master bathroom, a reinforced room deep within the suite. She placed him in the heavy marble bathtub and piled several thick towels over him.
"Do not make a sound, Elijah. No matter what you hear, you stay under the towels," Amara commanded, her voice fierce and steady.
She stepped out of the bathroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear, and took a position behind the heavy oak door of the bedroom. She clicked the safety off her weapon. Her hands were shaking violently, but her grip was tight.
Down the hall, she heard the heavy thud of boots and the chaotic shouting of men. Silas's voice barked orders, followed by a deafening exchange of gunfire inside the house. The perimeter had been breached. They were in the corridors.
Amara held her breath, pressing her back against the wall. The sound of violence drew closer. The agonizing screams of men echoing down the hallway made her stomach churn.
Suddenly, the gunfire stopped. The silence that followed was worse.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached the master suite. Amara raised the gun, aiming it directly at chest height at the doorway. She leveled her breathing, remembering Silas's instructions. Squeeze, don't pull.
The doorknob slowly turned. The heavy door was kicked open violently, crashing against the wall.
A massive figure stepped into the red-lit room, holding a rifle.
Amara screamed, her finger tightening on the trigger.
"Amara, don't shoot!"
The deep, incredibly familiar rumble of the voice made her freeze instantly. The figure stepped fully into the light.
It was Xavier.
He was covered in blood, his tactical sweater torn, his face bruised and smeared with grime. He looked like a demon straight out of hell, terrifying and majestic. He dropped his rifle and held up his hands, his chest heaving.
Amara lowered the gun, her knees immediately giving out. She collapsed onto the floor, a sob tearing from her throat.
Xavier crossed the room in two massive strides. He dropped to his knees, his large, tattooed hands frantically grabbing her arms, pulling her flush against his chest. He buried his face in her hair, breathing heavily.
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"You're safe," Xavier whispered fiercely, his voice cracking with an emotion he had never shown the world. "I've got you. Where is he?"
"In the tub," Amara sobbed, dropping the gun and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, burying her face in the blood-soaked fabric of his sweater. "We're safe."
