Chapter 6 - The Broken Wolf
The heavy stone cracked against the composite helmet with a dull, hollow thud. The impact didn't penetrate the armor, but the sudden force threw the mercenary off balance, causing him to stumble forward into the shallows of the lake. His grip on Toby slipped.
"Toby, run!" Clara screamed.
Toby didn't hesitate. He scrambled through the muddy shallows, splashing frantically toward his father. Nathan lunged forward, swept Toby up with his left arm, and tucked the child behind his broad back.
The mercenary shook his head, roaring in fury as he swung around with his submachine gun raised directly at Clara.
Nathan didn't aim to disarm. He brought his 9mm sidearm up in a one-handed combat stance, firing two hollow-point rounds center-mass into the operative's chest plate, followed by a third into the shoulder seam. The mercenary collapsed backward into the lake, the black water foaming red around him before the current swept his body toward the center of the basin.
Silence descended over the riverbank, broken only by the panting breaths of Nathan, Clara, and the rushing water over the rocks.
Nathan pulled Clara into his arms, crushing her and Toby against his chest. Clara was soaked to the bone, shivering violently from the freezing mountain water, but her arms held both of them with iron strength.
"Are you hurt? Did they hit you?" Nathan asked, checking her head and shoulders with frantic gentleness.
"I'm fine... I'm fine," Clara sobbed, kissing Toby's wet forehead over and over. "He grabbed Toby through the cellar drain... Arthur tried to stop them, but they threw a flash grenade..."
"Where is Dad?" Nathan's head snapped up toward the cabin on the ridge.
Through the trees, a thick plume of black smoke was rising from the cabin’s cedar roof.
Leaving the lake behind, Nathan ushered Clara and Toby up the winding trail, keeping his weapon raised. As they cleared the crest of the hill, their breath caught in their throats.
The porch had caught fire from the burning debris of the drone. But on the gravel driveway, Arthur Blackwood lay motionless on his back, his vintage hunting rifle lying in the grass ten feet away.
Standing over Arthur was a man Nathan had never seen before—dressed not in tactical gear, but in an immaculate charcoal wool overcoat, holding a silver walking cane with a heavy dragon's-head pommel.
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The man looked up as Nathan stepped out of the woods. He possessed aristocratically sharp features, cold amber eyes, and a cruel, knowing smile.
"Nathan Blackwood," the man spoke, his voice smooth as silk and cold as grave dirt. "You look remarkably like your mother. It's a pity Arthur never told you the real reason she died."
