At 6:30 on a freezing Thursday morning, my sister called to tell me our father had passed away. There was only one problem. Dad was sitting three feet away from me at my kitchen table, wearing a navy flannel robe, sipping fresh coffee, and stealing bacon from my plate like he had been doing every morning for the past two days.

Four men dressed in dark tactical gear stepped out of the black vehicles.

They were carrying suppressed automatic weapons.

"Dad, we have to leave right now," I hissed in absolute panic.

Dad didn't hesitate for a single second.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the back door of the kitchen.

We slipped quietly out into the freezing backyard just as the front door was kicked open.

The loud crash of splintering wood echoed through my small house.

I heard heavy boots stomping across my living room floor.

We ran across the frosted grass, our breath visible in the freezing morning air.

I unlocked the wooden gate leading into the back alley.

My neighbor's old, rusted pickup truck was parked directly behind my fence.

I knew he always kept a spare key hidden inside the magnetic box under the bumper.

I dropped to my knees in the dirt and frantically felt around the cold metal.

My frozen fingers brushed against the small plastic box.

I pulled out the silver key and unlocked the passenger door for my father.

I jumped into the driver's seat and jammed the key into the ignition.

The old engine sputtered, coughed, and finally roared to life.

I slammed my foot on the gas pedal.

The truck fishtailed wildly down the narrow alleyway.

I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw two armed men sprinting out of my backyard.

They raised their rifles and fired silently at the retreating truck.

A bullet shattered the passenger side mirror, missing Dad's head by mere inches.

I yanked the steering wheel hard, turning aggressively onto the main highway.

We drove in terrified silence for twenty minutes until I was sure we had lost them.

"They aren't going to stop until we are dead," Dad whispered, staring at his trembling hands.

I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.

"We have to go to the police," I pleaded.

Dad shook his head slowly.

"Julian owns the local police chief, Clara."

My phone suddenly buzzed violently in my jacket pocket.

I pulled it out and saw a text message from Samuel Mercer, the town mortician.

When my newborn 'passed away,' my mother-in-law leaned in and said

My Husband Left Me Alone in My Car While I Was in Labor

“You’re Dead When We Get Home,” He Snapped

The message made my blood run completely cold.

"The cartel just arrived at the funeral home to inspect your dead body."

Chapter 2 - The Assassins