Chapter 2 - The Slashed Cables
Wade aimed the cold steel barrel directly at David's chest without a single ounce of hesitation.
My heart completely stopped beating in my chest as the deadly standoff escalated.
"Put the gun down, Wade," David ordered, keeping his own weapon perfectly steady in his trained hands.
"This is my private property, and you are trespassing," Wade sneered with a sickening arrogance.
He claimed he had every legal right in the state to defend his home from a violent intruder.
Mom tightened her painful grip on my hand, her entire frail body shaking with uncontrollable terror.
"Please don't hurt him, Wade," she begged, hot tears spilling down her heavily wrinkled cheeks.
Wade ignored his own mother completely, keeping his deadly focus entirely on David.
"Slide your weapon across the floor, Miller, or I shoot Claire first," Wade threatened dangerously.
He shifted his aim instantly, pointing the loaded gun directly at my face.
David hesitated for only a fraction of a second before slowly lowering his service weapon.
He tossed it across the polished hardwood floor, kicking it far out of reach toward the living room wall.
"Now get on your knees and put your hands behind your head," Wade commanded with a wicked, victorious grin.
As David slowly lowered himself to the ground, Lucy suddenly appeared silently from the kitchen hallway.
She was holding a heavy cast-iron frying pan in both of her trembling hands.
Without a single warning word, she swung it as hard as she could into the back of her father's knees.
Wade roared in sheer physical agony, his thick legs buckling instantly beneath his massive frame.
His gun fired wildly into the ceiling, sending a shower of white drywall raining down on our heads.
"Run right now!" Lucy screamed, dropping the heavy skillet and fleeing frantically toward the back door.
David grabbed his discarded weapon off the floor and grabbed my arm with intense urgency.
We half-carried Mom out the front door and rushed down the wooden porch steps.
The warm September air hit my face as we sprinted desperately toward David's unmarked police cruiser.
I fumbled aggressively for the passenger door handle, praying the powerful engine would start quickly.
David jumped into the driver's seat and turned the ignition key with a frantic twist.
The engine clicked, choked loudly, and died completely in the quiet driveway.
He tried again, but the dashboard lights flickered weakly and went entirely dark.
I looked out the passenger window and felt my blood run as cold as winter ice.
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Wade was standing furiously on the front porch, bleeding heavily from a nasty cut on his head.
He was holding the severed battery cables from David's cruiser in his bloody, triumphant hand.
