Chapter Eleven #3
My mouth formed words about stars and stickers and cookies while my mind pictured hooded men aiming rifles through windows. The chatter kept flowing, automatic as breathing.
Casey’s phone buzzed. Mine vibrated against my leg at exactly the same moment.
Spade’s message read: on site.
My stomach twisted into a cold knot. Questions burned in my throat, but I tucked the phone away. Spade would send whatever information mattered when he could. The men needed radio discipline more than I needed comfort.
Minutes ticked by. Ten. Fifteen. Sweat beaded across my neck.
“Jade,” Casey murmured, her breath warm near my shoulder.
“Yeah?”
Her gaze dropped to my hand. “You’re squeezing the crayon as though you want to stab someone with the broken end. Loosen your grip before you snap the wax and frighten the children.”
I looked. The wax had bent in my grip, close to breaking. I loosened my fingers, embarrassed at how fear turned everything into a weapon. “Sorry.”
“Don’t.” Casey’s voice stayed gentle but firm. “Just breathe.”
We did. In and out. Slow. Like it mattered.
Five more minutes crawled by.
Then the Prospect near the front window stiffened. “Car,” he announced quietly. “Coming up the road. Slow.”
The room went still for a heartbeat. Every adult held breath like the sound might tip off whoever was outside.
Casey stood, voice bright and calm like she was starting a game. “Kids! Who wants to play the quiet walking game?”
A couple of them perked up immediately. “Me!”
“Okay.” She clapped softly. “Walking feet. Whisper voices. Same as practice. Aunt Jade’s leading the back line.”
I swallowed panic and forced a smile into place. “Come on, stars,” I told them, keeping my tone light. “Let’s see who remembers the way to the cozy room.”
Small fingers reached for my hands. I gathered them, guiding the back half as Casey took the front. Marci nodded to a Prospect near the door, and he moved closer, eyes fixed on the driveway.
As we passed the glass, I caught a glimpse outside. A dark sedan rolled up to the gate. Clean. Not one of ours.
“Gate cam?” Marci’s voice came low.
“Got it,” a Prospect at the wall monitor replied. “Plate unknown. One driver. Face blocked by glare.”
“Open the gate?” another asked, tense.
“No,” Marci cut in. “Not until we know who it is. Let them ring.”
We moved past the kitchen into the hallway. The kids whispered and giggled, excited by the “game,” and I envied their innocent perception of danger as nothing more than practice. Casey led them down the stairs into the basement.
Concrete walls surrounded us in the safe room. A heavy steel door sealed the entrance. Shelves stood stocked with water and canned food. Cots remained folded against one wall. Blankets lay piled in a corner. A battery lantern hung from the ceiling, a sad attempt to brighten the underground bunker.
The space reminded me of storm cellars from disaster movies. Stepping across the threshold felt wrong -- an admission the world above might explode into violence any second.
“Okay, ducklings,” Casey chirped. “Climb on the boats.”
We unfolded cots while the children swarmed them, sitting cross-legged according to our rehearsals. Their expressions changed as they settled, solemn awareness replacing playfulness.
“Remember,” I coached softly. “We stay quiet. We listen. We don’t open the door unless Aunt Casey says.”
They nodded. Casey’s gaze met mine over their heads. “You stay here,” she instructed.
“With them?” My voice tightened.
“Yeah.” Casey’s expression sharpened with purpose. “I’m going to see who rang the bell. If something goes wrong, we both know the code.”
I punched the code in. Numbers on the keypad outside the door. Simple. Efficient. The system gave me false security when I considered how enemies beyond our fence would blow past any lock, any barrier, any code. My brain wanted to believe in safety while my gut knew better.
“No.” The word came out before I could swallow it. “If Diaz’s men are out there, I’m not letting you go back up those stairs alone.”
“I’m not going up alone.” Casey nodded toward the stairwell. “Two Prospects at the top. Shotgun waiting. That’s enough company.”
“The kids need you,” I argued, voice low but sharp. “They listen to you.”
“They’ll listen to you too.” Casey’s gaze softened just a fraction. “That matters. They know you now. They trust you.”
Fear flared. “Casey --”
“We’re not in a movie.” She squeezed my shoulder. “Sometimes a car is just a car.”
“Sometimes it isn’t.”
“And if it isn’t, we handle it.” Her voice dropped. “My daughter is down here. My heart is sitting on that cot. You think I’m going to be reckless with my heart in your hands?”
That hit harder than anything else she could’ve said. I nodded, throat too tight for words.
“Call down if anything’s off,” I managed. “I’ll call up if we hear something. Deal?”
“Deal.” Casey turned to the kids with the same bright tone. “Aunt Jade and I are tag-teaming. I’m going to talk to someone at the door. You stay here, listen to Aunt Jade, and show her how good your quiet game is.”
They nodded solemnly. Casey brushed past me, then the heavy door swung shut. Silence settled in.
Too much silence.
Solena’s girl lifted her coloring book, eyes big. “Can we color?”
I forced my muscles to unclench and made my mouth shape a smile. “Yeah. Of course.”
I passed out crayons and coloring books, then settled on the floor with a clear view of all the children. The gun weighed heavy at my hip, reminding me how adults prepared concrete bunkers for violence while kids drew dragons.
“You tell us a story?” Solena’s girl whispered, her voice barely audible.
“What kind of story?” My tone remained gentle despite the tension knotting my shoulders.
“Happy,” she decided. “Not scary.”
Every fairy tale vanished from my memory.
Happy stories belonged to other people, to normal families without weapons and safe rooms. The memory of stars and stickers floated back to me -- wishes on paper.
I remembered how children believed stars on a page could make dreams real when enough accumulated in one place.
“Okay,” I whispered back. “Once upon a time, there was a girl who liked to look at the sky…”
I talked. I described a girl who collected stars and taped them onto paper until her room felt like night even during the day.
I described her making wishes and hiding them in jars because she was scared they’d disappear if she said them out loud.
I described her meeting people who didn’t laugh at her wishes, people who helped her keep them safe until they could come true.
The kids colored while I talked, little hands moving in careful strokes. Every few minutes I checked my phone, resisting the urge to text. No new messages. My throat stayed tight.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. My heart beat so hard it felt like it was lodged in my throat.
Finally, a knock came at the door. Two short, one long.
Our code.
I swallowed and called softly, “Yeah?”
“Open.” Casey’s voice, steady.
I punched the numbers into the keypad and turned the heavy handle. The door swung inward. Casey stood there with a shotgun hanging easy, one of the Prospects behind her with his gun angled at the floor, relaxed but ready.
“No cartel?” I breathed.
“No cartel.” Casey’s mouth quirked. “Supply delivery. Wrong day. The guy swore he had the correct address. Marci sent him away after verification. Spade’s checking the origin of his order.”
My knees went watery from the sudden rush of relief. “False alarm,” I managed to say.
“Real drill,” Casey corrected me. “You handled everything well.”
The kids glanced up with wide eyes.
Casey’s daughter whispered, “Were bad guys coming?” Her voice dropped so low the words might have summoned them otherwise.
“Nope.” Casey kept her tone light. “Just a confused man who doesn’t know how calendars work. You all did amazing. I almost didn’t hear you breathing.”
They beamed. The room loosened a notch.
“You can go upstairs now,” Casey told them. “Inside rules still apply. Special rules until the grown-ups say otherwise.”
They scrambled to their feet, chatter already shifting to snacks and cartoons. I leaned against the concrete wall for a second, letting my lungs remember how to work.
“You okay?” Casey’s voice dropped to adult-only.
“My heart just ran a marathon.”
“Get used to it.” She squeezed my shoulder. “You got them down here and kept them calm. That’s harder than shooting paper.”
“It feels harder.”
Casey murmured, “You can’t fix bullet holes in kids,” and her words became heavy metal across my shoulders -- armor I hadn’t learned to carry.
Upstairs, I heard hushed voices in the common room. Bodies moved through space while minds stayed alert. Threats worked this way -- knowledge of danger kept us listening for trouble, even when one false alarm proved innocent.
I checked my phone again. Nothing from Spade.
Time stretched. Fifteen more minutes. Twenty.
I made coffee for Marci because her hands trembled when she tried to pour. I helped Solena reorganize bandages for the third time. I answered the kids’ questions in gentle loops -- when are they coming back, where did they go, are they okay -- without admitting how badly I wanted answers too.
Then my phone buzzed.
Spade: package secured. Coming home.
Air rushed out of me in a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in for an hour.
Casey watched my face. “Good news?”
“They got him,” I managed. “They’re on their way back.”
A murmur rippled through the room as other phones lit up. Shoulders loosened an inch. No one abandoned their positions, not yet. The threat didn’t vanish just because we’d grabbed one man. But hope slid in the door anyway, quiet and stubborn.
Engines rumbled outside almost forty minutes later. Headlights swept across the windows. The gate rolled, then locked again.