Chapter 4 - THE DESPERATE INTRUDER
A cornered animal is the most dangerous kind. Marcus was broke, homeless, and facing federal charges. I knew he wouldn't just roll over.
On Thursday night, a thick fog rolled off the Appalachian foothills, swallowing the farmhouse. Emma was fast asleep in my childhood bedroom. I was awake in the living room, sitting in the dark with a cup of black coffee and my father's old 12-gauge shotgun resting across my lap.
Military training rewires your brain. You don't sleep when the enemy is in the wire.
At 2:00 AM, the motion sensor light on the back porch flickered on.
I didn't move. I just listened. The soft crunch of gravel. The heavy breathing of someone trying to be quiet.
The back door handle jiggled. When it didn't open, the glass pane shattered inward. A gloved hand reached through, unlocking the deadbolt.
Marcus stepped into the kitchen, a heavy crowbar in his hand. He had come for the lockbox. He knew if he could destroy my father's evidence, it would be my word against his.
He crept into the hallway, his boots leaving muddy tracks on the hardwood.
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"Looking for something, Marcus?" I asked.
He jumped, spinning toward the living room. When he saw me sitting there, the barrel of the shotgun leveled directly at his chest, all the color drained from his face.
