“How did they track us so fast?” I demanded, grabbing a heavy brass paperweight from the desk as an improvised weapon.

“The baby’s medical monitoring chip,” Eric cursed, tapping furiously at a secondary keyboard to reroute our home defense protocols. “The hospital in Chicago implanted a subcutaneous tracker for his genetic immunity condition. I thought our local firewall was encrypted enough to mask the signal, but their corporate satellite has military-grade decryption capabilities.”

Heavy, thunderous blows echoed from the front entryway downstairs. Someone was using a hydraulic battering ram against our custom mahogany front doors. The entire house shuddered.

“Maya, listen to me,” Eric said, grabbing my shoulders and forcing me to look at him. “There’s a panic room behind the master walk-in closet. It has an independent satellite uplink and a private exit tunnel leading down to the private beach cliffs. Take the baby and go.”

“I am not leaving you here to die,” I snapped, shaking my head fiercely. “We go together, or we don't go at all. We are a family, Eric—stop trying to carry every burden alone!”

A rare, fierce smile touched the corners of Eric’s mouth. He pulled a concealed biometric Glock from a magnetic holster beneath the desk and shoved it into my hand, closing my fingers tightly around the grip.

“Then we fight,” he said.

Crash!

The front doors upstairs splintered into kindling. Heavy combat boots hit the foyer marble. Shouted orders echoed up the grand staircase. The tactical team had breached the main house.

Eric grabbed a customized suppression shotgun from his armory locker, flicked off the safety, and positioned himself sideways against the open office doorframe.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered softly.

The hallway outside flooded with the sound of approaching footsteps. Shadows stretched across the wall. The first tactical operative stepped around the corner, his asNextlt rifle raised—and Eric fired.

The suppressed blast was a dull, heavy thud. The operative dropped instantly, unconscious.

Before the second man could round the corner, I stepped out from behind Eric, raised the Glock with both hands just like my father had taught me on our hunting trips in Ohio, and fired two precise shots into the drywall directly above the intruder’s head, shattering a wall-mounted fire extinguisher. White foam exploded everywhere, blinding the advancing team in a thick, choking cloud of chemical dust.

“Move! Move!” Eric shouted, grabbing my hand.

We sprinted up the spiral staircase toward the master suite, clutching the baby carrier between us. We burst into the bedroom, slamming the heavy oak door shut and throwing the deadbolts.

I rushed to the walk-in closet, spun the combination dial on the hidden wall safe, and yanked open the steel vault door revealing the dark, descending staircase of the panic room.

As Eric helped me slide the baby carrier down into safety, a deafening explosion blasted our bedroom door off its hinges. Smoke, dust, and splinters filled the air.

Through the haze, a tall man in a tailored black suit stepped over the wreckage. He wasn't a standard mercenary; he was Victor Thorne, the chief legal counsel and head of covert operations for the pharmaceutical conglomerate that had hunted my sister.

Thorne lowered his asNextlt rifle, looked down at Eric standing protectively in front of the panic room entrance, and smiled a cold, shark-like grin.

“Well, well,” Thorne chuckled smoothly. “The prodigal son and his lovely wife. Hand over the boy, Eric. Save yourself a very messy execution.”