Chapter 8 - The Sniper’s Nest
Mark froze with a bottle of antiseptic in his hand, his eyes locking onto the heavy wooden front door. Every muscle in his body tightened like a coiled spring. He blew out the kerosene lamp with a quick puff, plunging the cabin into the dim, silver wash of moonlight filtering through the dusty windows.
"Get under the table, Lily, right now," Mark whispered fiercely, his voice a low, urgent hiss. He didn't wait for her to argue; he physically guided her small body beneath the heavy oak dining table, pushing an overturned crate in front of it to shield her from any angle facing the front entrance.
"Daddy, what's happening?" Lily whispered back, her voice shaking with terror.
"Stay down. Don't make a sound. No matter what you hear," Mark instructed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He crept toward the corner of the room where an old hunting rifle hung on two wooden pegs above the fireplace. It was an antique bolt-action .30-06 that belonged to Sarah’s grandfather, untouched and uncleaned for over a decade. Mark grabbed it down, his fingers frantically checking the magazine. There were three old brass cartridges in the internal chamber. He pulled the bolt back, loaded the first round with a quiet, practiced click, and took cover beside the heavy stone fireplace, his bruised eye straining to see through the gloom.
A heavy boot struck the wooden porch steps, the boards groaning under the sudden weight. Then came the sound of a gloved hand sliding across the rough wood of the front door, feeling for the handle.
Mark raised the rifle to his shoulder, resting the cold steel barrel against the stone mantle, aligning his sights with the center of the door panel. His breathing was slow and controlled, the adrenaline burning away the pain in his ribs.
The door handle turned slowly, inch by inch, with agonizing deliberation. The lock—rusted and weak from years of neglect—gave way with a sharp snap as the door was kicked inward with brutal force.
A towering figure silhouette filled the doorway, clad in tactical black gear with a thermal NVG rig strapped over his helmet. The intruder swept the barrel of a silenced submachine gun across the room, searching for targets in the dark.
"I know you're in here, Mark," a metallic voice echoed through the speaker of the intruder’s tactical mask. It wasn't Arthur’s voice, and it wasn't one of the estate guards. It was a professional—a contract killer whose allegiance belonged only to the highest bidder. "Richard sends his regards. Give me the girl and the journal, and make it quick."
Mark’s finger hovered over the trigger of the old hunting rifle. He knew that if he fired, the deafening blast would shatter the night, alerting any other spotters in the woods, but he had run out of choices.
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Before Mark could squeeze the trigger, a bright red laser dot flickered across the killer’s chest, projecting from the window behind him. A second sniper had just locked onto the intruder from the opposite tree line.
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