Chapter 4
The first shot didn't shatter the glass;
it vibrated the very foundation of the cottage.
They were using a sonic breach tool,
a device designed to neutralize the human inner ear and paralyze a room before anyone could raise a hand in defense.
I had anticipated the tactic.
I had filled the cottage with dampening foam,
a high-density chemical I’d scavenged from the ice-house,
which absorbed the blast wave.
I felt the tremor in my chest,
a heavy thud of acoustic energy,
but I remained upright.
I fired my weapon through the wooden door,
a blind spray of lead that was meant to force them to reconsider their approach.
I heard a grunt,
a sharp,
choking sound of someone catching a round in a vulnerable spot,
and then the return fire began.
It was a deluge.
Bullets chewed through the cedar siding,
turning the kitchen into a splintered,
chaotic mess.
I dove behind the heavy,
reinforced steel island I’d welded into the center of the room last winter,
my ears ringing,
my lungs burning from the acrid taste of gunpowder.
"Malcolm Vance!"
a voice boomed from outside,
a voice that sounded like grinding metal.
"Surrender the boy,
and you will be granted a quick departure.
Refuse,
and we will turn this structure into your tomb."
I didn't answer.
I reached for a flash-bang on my vest,
tossed it over the island,
and waited for the detonation.
BOOM.
The white flash of the blast hit the hallway,
and I surged forward,
my weapon dancing in my hands.
I took down the first two who entered,
the precision of my fire a testament to years of training,
each round finding its mark with clinical,
lethal intent.
The other two scrambled back,
the element of surprise stripped from them.
I retreated into the study,
the smell of smoke and copper filling my nostrils.
I was winning the firefight,
but I was losing the room.
The fire started in the kitchen,
the heat of the tracer rounds igniting the wood-panelling.
The cottage was becoming a furnace.
"Ryan,"
I whispered,
a prayer to the floorboards.
I had to get him out.
I kicked open the side exit,
the freezing air rushing in to meet the wall of fire,
and I stepped out into the snow,
my weapon raised,
scanning for the remaining two.
They were waiting.
I saw them in the treeline,
their rifles raised,
their tactical discipline absolute.
I didn't have time to aim.
I dove into the snow,
the ground erupted in a spray of white powder as they unloaded their magazines into the spot where I had been standing a second before.
I rolled,
coming up on one knee,
and put them down.
Silence settled over the yard,
a heavy,
unnatural quiet that was broken only by the crackle of the burning cottage.
The ghosts had been defeated,
but the cottage was lost.
And I was bleeding.
I looked down at my side,
the dark,
spreading stain on my vest.
A clean hit,
but a deep one.
I was fading.
The cold was starting to feel warm,
the white of the snow taking on a soft,
inviting hue.
I forced myself to stand.
I forced myself to walk to the pantry door.
"Ryan,"
I said,
May you like
my voice a ghost of itself.
"It's time."
