7. - – Christian
CHAPTER SEVEN
-
CHRISTIAN
The first man arrives just after dawn. I spot him through binoculars from the ridge overlooking the eastern road. The man isn't a local hunter or law enforcement. This guy is trained, probably ex-military.
The war has officially started.
I follow him, silently. The same way predators patiently stalk their prey. By the time he realizes he's no longer alone, it's already too late. The blade of my knife is pressed against his throat.
"Dropping the weapon would be an excellent first decision."
His rifle hits the dirt.
I search him quickly—satellite phone, maps, and Amelia's picture.
The rage is instant.
I press the knife harder against his skin, and a few drops of blood begin rolling down his neck. "How many?"
The man swallows.
"How many teams are they sending in after you give the all clear?"
Fear flashes across his face.
Good.
He should be afraid.
"Three."
"Who hired you?" I know the answer, I ask anyway.
"Fairfax."
Of course.
The man looks confused when I release him, almost relieved. Then I smile, and his relief vanishes immediately. I'm not law enforcement, I'm not military—not anymore, and I'm not interested in anyone's fucking rules.
Before he has time to blink, I pull my pistol and put a bullet directly in the center of his forehead.
I head back toward the house, ready to destroy anything that threatens her. Amelia stands on the porch. She smiles when she sees me, but the expression fades the second she notices my face.
"What happened?"
I climb the steps, trying to control the anger. "We're leaving. Pack what you need, only essentials."
"No. Not until you tell me what happened."
God help me, I grin at her attitude. She should be refusing, fighting. Because every time she stands up for herself, another piece of Preston dies.
And when I get my way, the rest of him will too.
"They sent a scout; it won't be long before the rest of them come."
"How much time do we have?"
"Not enough. They are most likely planning to hit tonight after the sun goes down, so they have the dark as cover."
Amelia disappears into the cabin without another argument, and I spend the next twenty minutes erasing signs of us from the house.
The shelter sits three miles from the lake house, buried deep in dense forest.
I built it a year ago. Paranoia is survival, and the government will eventually come looking for me.
Turns out I wasn't entirely wrong.
Amelia walks beside me through the trees.
"You built a shelter way out here?"
"Yeah."