Chapter 5 - THE STORM OVER HARROW FALLS
The rain on Caldwell Street had turned into a full-blown gale by 7:00 p.m.
Inside the small kitchen, the lights flickered briefly as the wind rattled the old window frames. Isabella was standing by the stove, stirring a pot of chicken noodle soup, but her mind was miles away. Her eyes kept darting toward the front window, where the silhouette of the maple tree swayed violently against the dark sky.
The black Lincoln was gone from the corner, but the silence that had replaced it felt even more menacing.
"Mom," Eli said from the kitchen table, where he was drawing a remarkably detailed sketch of a sailboat in his notebook. "Why are we packing?"
In the hallway, two large duffel bags sat near the front door.
Isabella turned off the burner, her hands pressing against the edge of the counter. She couldn't lie to him. Eli was too smart for the usual parental platitudes.
"We have to go on a little trip, Eli," she said, walking over and kneeling beside his chair. "Just for a few weeks. Some old... friends of my family are looking for us, and I think it's better if we aren't here when they find us."
"Are they bad people?" Eli asked.
"Some of them are," Isabella said softly, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. "But I won't let them hurt you. I promise."
Before Eli could answer, the lights in the house went completely out.
The kitchen was plunged into pitch-black darkness, save for the pale, watery light of the streetlamp filtering through the rain-streaked window. The hum of the refrigerator died, replaced by the howling of the wind outside.
Then, a floorboard creaked on the back porch.
It was a small, distinct sound, easily lost in the storm to an untrained ear, but Isabella had spent nine years living with her senses tuned to the frequency of survival.
"Eli," she whispered, her hand tightening on his shoulder. "Under the table. Now. Don't make a sound."
Eli didn't hesitate. He slipped off his chair and crawled under the heavy oak table, pulling his knees to his chest.
Isabella reached into the kitchen drawer, her fingers wrapping around the handle of a heavy chef’s knife. Her heart was beating so hard she could hear the blood rushing in her ears.
The back door, old and secured only by a simple brass lock, groaned.
A heavy shoulder struck the wood. Once. Twice.
On the third strike, the lock shattered, and the door flew open, letting in a blast of cold rain and the smell of wet wool.
A man stepped into the kitchen, his dark coat dripping, a flashlight in one hand and a silenced pistol in the other. The beam of the flashlight swept across the room, illuminating the empty chairs, the stove, and finally, Isabella standing near the counter, the knife held low and ready.
"Where’s the kid, Isabella?" the man asked. It was Marcus. His voice was flat, devoid of any human warmth.
"Get out of my house," Isabella said, her voice steady despite the terror clawing at her throat.
"I don't want to hurt you, lady," Marcus said, taking a slow step forward. "Victor just wants the boy. A little insurance policy for the boss. Give him to me, and you get to live."
"You touch him, and I will kill you," Isabella said, her grip tightening on the knife.
Marcus let out a short, mocking laugh. He raised the gun, aiming it directly at her chest. "With a kitchen knife? Don't be stupid, Isabella. Where is he?"
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He took another step, his flashlight beam catching the edge of the table.
Before Marcus could move his gun, the front door of the house was kicked off its hinges with a sound like a thunderclap.
