THE WINTER HEIR

"Shut up," I hissed, lunging forward and grabbing him by the arm before he collapsed, dragging his dead weight against the wall of the kitchen. "If you make a sound, they'll put a bullet through this wall and everyone inside it."

Callahan grunted, sliding down the pine paneling until he was sitting on the floor, his breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps. The movement had torn open the stitches beneath the gauze; a fresh, dark stain was already seeping through his shirt, pooling on the floorboards.

"They're Vance's cleaners," Callahan whispered, his teeth clenched against the white-hot agony in his side. "Professional contractors out of Seattle. They don't leave witnesses. If they see smoke coming from this chimney, they won't even knock."

Outside, the heavy crunch of boots on crusty snow drew closer.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

They were at the porch.

I looked down at the table. Underneath the checkered cloth, I could see the edge of Brie’s pink pajama pants. She was holding her breath. I could tell because the cloth wasn't moving.

I had roughly ten seconds before they tested the door handle.

"Can you hold a gun?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm, the adrenaline freezing my veins into pure ice.

Callahan blinked, his foggy eyes snapping up to mine. He looked at the Sig Sauer in my hand, then up at my face. He saw no fear there—only the cold, primal fury of a mother whose world was being cornered.

"I can shoot straight," he grunted, reaching out with a trembling hand.

I dropped the Sig into his palm. His fingers wrapped around the grip with practiced, instinctive familiarity, the safety flicking off with a barely audible click.

"Don't shoot until I tell you," I whispered.

I didn't wait for his answer. I crept toward the heavy oak door, my hand sliding down to the latch. The boots had stopped on the wooden porch planks. One, two, three sets of heavy treads shifting weight.

A gloved knuckle rapped twice against the pine door. Tap. Tap.

It wasn't a friendly knock. It was the rhythmic, mocking knock of men who knew they held all the cards.

"Cabin service," a raspy, muffled voice called out through the wood. "Open up, folks. We saw your lights."

I swallowed hard, stepping right up to the door. My finger hovered over the deadbolt.

"We're sleeping," I called back, trying to keep my voice high, thin, and terrified—the voice of a frightened single mother living alone in the woods. "Come back in the morning."

A pause outside. I could picture them standing there on the porch, exchanging glances through their night-vision goggles, smelling the fresh blood and the woodsmoke.

"Ma'am, we got reports of a vehicle off the highway about a mile back," the voice continued, smooth and entirely devoid of human warmth. "Just need to make sure you're all right. Mind opening the door?"

"We're fine," I said, my hand slowly turning the deadbolt. Click.

Outside, the sound of three safety switches clicking off in unison cut through the silence of the night like a knife.

They weren't here to check if we were all right. They were here to clear the room.