Chapter 13
The front door of the hunting cabin splintered with a deafening crash as it was kicked wide open from the outside. Heavy boots crunched across the wooden floorboards, accompanied by the harsh beam of a high-powered tactical flashlight cutting through the pitch-black room.
Mark shoved the storm cellar doors open, pushing Sarah and Leo down into the cool, dark subterranean space beneath the cabin. "Go down! Stay quiet!" he hissed, before slipping back into the shadows of the main room, holding the heavy iron poker tight in his grip.
"I know you're in here, Mark," a smooth, chilling voice called out from the doorway. It was the same man in the trench coat from their driveway. "Give up the box. You can't outrun what's coming."
Leo crouched at the bottom of the cellar stairs, his heart pounding in his throat. He looked up through the crack in the wooden doors, watching the bright beam of the flashlight sweep across the room, stopping directly over the wooden table where the open metal lockbox and the leather journal still rested.
"You're too late," Mark’s voice echoed from the dark corner near the fireplace, steady and unyielding. "The copies are already out of your hands."
"A brave lie, Mark, but a foolish one," the stranger replied, stepping further into the room, flanked by two larger men in dark tactical gear. "The sheriff is already securing the roads out of Oak Grove. Nobody leaves this valley with that journal."
A sudden scuffle broke out in the cabin above. The sound of heavy thuds, crashing furniture, and angry shouts reverberated through the floorboards. Leo flinched with every crash, ready to run back up the stairs to help his father, but Sarah grabbed his arm tightly, holding him back with tears streaming down her face.
"Don't, Leo! Your father told us to stay down!" she whispered fiercely, pressing her hand over her mouth to muffle her sobs.
Suddenly, a loud crash shook the ceiling above, followed by a heavy groan and the sound of someone hitting the floor hard. Then, silence fell over the cabin—a heavy, terrifying silence that felt infinitely worse than the fighting.
"Dad!" Leo screamed, ignoring Sarah's grip as he bolted up the cellar stairs, pushing the wooden doors open and lunging into the dimly lit room.
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The cabin was a wreck. Broken chairs and shattered glass littered the floor. Mark was pinned against the stone fireplace by the two men in tactical gear, his arms held firmly behind his back, while the man in the trench coat stood over the table, holding the leather journal and the photographic negatives in his hand with a triumphant smile.
"Thank you for saving us the trouble of searching for it," the man said smoothly, tucking the journal into his coat. He turned his cold gaze toward Leo, who stood frozen in the doorway. "And give my regards to your grandfather when you see him."
