UNTIL MY DYING CALL UNCOVERED A DEADLY CONSPIRACY THAT WOULD COST THEM EVERYTHING.

The deafening roar of a flashbang grenade was followed instantly by the shattering crump of a Molotov cocktail hitting the hardwood floor.

Flames erupted across the living room rug, black, chemical smoke rolling up toward the ceiling.

"Down!" Dad roared, tackling me to the kitchen linoleum just as three high-caliber rifle rounds punched through the kitchen cabinets above our heads, showering us with splinters and shattered ceramic plates.

Marcus didn't hesitate. He drew his concealed Glock 19, rolled onto his stomach, and returned fire through the shattered living room window, putting four rapid shots into the front yard.

"Suppressing fire!" Marcus yelled, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. "Back door! Move, Arthur! Get her out!"

Dad grabbed me by the collar of my jacket, hauling me toward the rear kitchen exit. Fire was already eating through the drywall, the heat scorching the back of my neck.

As we burst through the back screen door into the freezing alleyway, a dark gray sedan accelerated toward us, tires screeching against the wet pavement.

The passenger window rolled down. A masked man leveled a semi-automatic shotgun at my chest.

"Claire, duck!" Dad screamed.

Dad lunged in front of me, his old service revolver clearing his holster in a blinding fraction of a second. Two deafening cracks echoed off the brick alley walls.

The shooter’s shotgun blasted into the sky, buckshot chewing into the wooden telephone pole above us. The driver panicked, slamming the steering wheel to the right, and the sedan crashed violently into a row of industrial dumpsters, tires spinning uselessly against the grease-slicked asphalt.

Marcus burst out the back door, his weapon raised, advancing on the crashed vehicle with methodical, lethal precision.

"Driver! Hands on the wheel! Don't move!" Marcus commanded.

The driver kicked his door open and stumbled out into the mud, his hands raised in surrender. The passenger lay slumped across the dashboard, unconscious from the collision.

Dad stepped up to the driver, grabbed him by the front of his tactical vest, and slammed him against the brick wall with the terrifying strength of a man defending his only child.

Dad ripped the ski mask from the man’s face.

It wasn't a professional hitman. It was a terrified kid in his early twenties, his face pale, blood dripping from his nose.

"Who hired you?!" Dad roared, pressing the barrel of his revolver directly beneath the boy’s chin. "Give me a name, or you will never leave this alley alive!"

"Sterling!" the kid sobbed, his voice cracking with hysterical terror. "Julian Sterling! He paid us ten grand in cash! He said the girl had documents in the house that had to burn! He said she couldn't make it to Monday morning!"

"Where is Julian right now?" Marcus demanded, securing the kid’s hands with zip-ties.

"The private airfield at DuPage!" the boy babbled, crying openly. "He has a Gulfstream fueled on the tarmac! He's clearing out his vault at the hangar and leaving the country at 6:00 PM!"

I looked down at my watch through the smoke and drizzling rain.

It was 4:45 PM.