Chapter 3 - THE SIEGE OF GALENA
The storm raged violently across the rolling hills of Illinois. Rain lashed against the windshield of the heavy black truck as Marcus and six of his most lethal veteran operatives drove toward the isolated farmhouse in Galena.
I sat in the passenger seat, racking the slide of an assault rifle, my eyes fixed on the digital map displayed on my phone.
"She’s smart, your girl," Marcus said, chewing on an unlit cigar as he navigated the muddy dirt roads. "Hiding in plain sight out in the farm country. If Michael’s boys hadn't put a tracker on her car when she left your penthouse, nobody ever would have found her."
"She’s smarter than me," I gritted out, staring at the flashing red dot. "She tried to save me, Marcus. Even after I humiliated her. Even after I destroyed her faith in me."
"Then you better make damn sure you prove you were worth saving," Marcus grunted, pulling the truck into a thick patch of trees a quarter-mile from the farm property. "We're here."
I raised a pair of night-vision binoculars and scanned the terrain.
The farmhouse sat alone in the middle of a vast cornfield. It was a cozy, two-story white house with a porch, surrounded by tall oak trees. But the peace of the countryside was shattered by the three black SUVs parked in the driveway.
Six armed men in tactical gear were surrounding the house, moving slowly through the rain toward the back entrance.
"They're moving in," I hissed, my pulse spiking to dangerous levels. "Michael gave the order early!"
"We go now," Marcus yelled, throwing the truck into gear.
We tore out of the tree line, engine screaming, smashing straight through the wooden perimeter fence of the farm.
"GO! GO! GO!" I roared.
The truck slammed into the rear SUV, flipping it onto its side in a shower of sparks and shattered metal. Before the smoke could clear, I kicked my door open and stepped into the storm, my rifle firing in controlled, lethal bursts.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Two of Michael’s hitmen went down before they even realized what hit them. Marcus’s men fanned out, exchanging heavy gunfire with the remaining mercenaries near the barn.
I didn't wait to clear the yard. My only thought was the woman inside that house.
I bounded onto the front porch, kicked the wooden front door off its hinges, and burst into the living room.
"Claire!" I screamed over the roar of gunfire outside. "CLAIRE!"
A heavy shadow lunged at me from behind the kitchen doorway. A heavy hunting knife slashed down toward my throat.
I raised my rifle to block the blow, the blade scraping loudly against the metal receiver. I drove my knee violently into the attacker's groin, spun him around, and slammed his head through the wooden drywall, knocking him cold.
Breathing heavily, I sprinted up the narrow stairs toward the second floor.
At the end of the hallway, a heavy bedroom door was barricaded with a dress drawer. From inside, I heard a sharp, desperate gasping sound, followed by a quiet, pained moan.
"Claire!" I hammered on the door with my fist. "Claire, it’s me! It’s Daniel! Open the door!"
Silence fell inside for a second. Then, her voice—weak, trembling, and terrified—echoed through the wood.
"Daniel...?"
"Yes! It's me, baby! I'm here!" I threw my weight against the barricaded door, snapping the lock and forcing the dresser back.
I burst into the room and froze.
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Claire was sitting on the floor beside the bed, holding a pair of heavy iron shears in her hand. Her face was pale as chalk, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Her hands were trembling violently.
And beneath her gray maternity dress, her waters had broken.
