THE GHOST OF KEARNS RIDGE: THE SOLDIER WHO CAME HOME FROM A GRAVE THAT WAS NEVER DUG

The sharp, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of suppressed rifle fire tore through the exterior walls of the house, chewing up the drywall in the entryway and sending plaster dust raining down over their heads.

"Clara, listen to me," Mark said, gripping her shoulders tightly until she stopped hitting him and met his fierce gaze. "If we stay in this hallway, we die. All of us. They don't take prisoners when a black-site asset goes rogue."

"Then why did you come back?" Lily sobbed, her face pressed into Toby’s jacket as her little brother shook uncontrollably beneath Mark’s protective weight. "Why didn't you just stay dead?"

Mark’s heart clenched at his daughter’s words, a sharp pain far worse than any physical wound he had sustained in the camps. But there was no time for apologies, no time to mend the irreparable fracture in their family.

"Because I couldn't let them erase us," Mark whispered fiercely. He looked up at David, who was cowering beside the coat rack, pale-faced and bleeding slightly from a glass nick on his cheek. "David. Can you drive a stick shift?"

David blinked, startled by the sudden question. "What? Yeah. My truck is in the driveway."

"Good," Mark said, reaching into his cargo pocket and pulling out the heavy steel lockbox he had retrieved from the master bedroom. He shoved it into David’s hands. "Take Clara, Lily, and Toby out the back door. Head through the treeline toward the old quarry. There's an abandoned ranger station three miles up the ridge. Wait for me there."

"And you?" Clara asked, her eyes widening in sudden horror as she realized what he was planning. "Mark, what are you doing?"

"I’m going to draw them away," Mark said, standing up from his crouch as another burst of gunfire shredded the living room curtains. He unzipped his canvas backpack and pulled out the suited man’s pistol, checking the magazine with practiced, fluid motions. "If I stay with you, they kill everyone in this house. If I run out the front, they follow the target."

"No!" Clara screamed, grabbing his wrist. "You can't just walk out there! They'll execute you on the front lawn!"

"They already did, fourteen months ago," Mark said softly, a grim, melancholic smile touching his lips. He gently peeled her fingers off his wrist. "Take care of my kids, David."