Chapter 3 - The Knock on the Door
Before I could process the terrifying weight of Bruno's words, a sharp, metallic sound cut through the silence of the cottage.
Clack-clack.
It was the distinctive sound of gravel crunching beneath heavy tires, followed immediately by the heavy thud of multiple car doors slamming shut in unison.
Bruno froze mid-sentence. His head snapped toward the front window. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up, his hand sliding beneath the waistband of his flannel shirt where he kept an old, heavy steel-framed revolver he hadn't touched since my parents died.
"Get to the back bedroom," Bruno commanded in a fierce, urgent whisper. "Take Brucie, crawl out the window, and head straight into the dense timberline behind the property. Do not look back, Clover. Do not make a sound."
"Grandpa, no! I'm not leaving you here!" I cried, scrambling up from the chair and rushing over to scoop little Brucie out of her basket. She stirred, letting out a soft, tiny mewl that sounded deafening in the tense silence.
"You have to!" Bruno hissed, his eyes wide with a desperate panic I had never seen before. "If they are here, it means they tracked Julian's digital footprint through your hospital registration or your prenatal records. They know about the baby. And if they take her, she will vanish into their world forever."
Before I could reach the hallway, heavy, coordinated footfalls thundered up the wooden steps of the front porch.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The front door shook violently under the force of iron-shod boots. The old brass lock rattled, threatening to splinter the dry pine frame.
"Bruno!" a cold, cultured voice called out from the other side of the door. It wasn't a shout; it was a smooth, chillingly polite baritone that carried an unmistakable aura of absolute power. "Open up, old man. We know you're in there. And we know you've got family visiting."
Bruno pushed me back toward the hallway, his face hardened into a mask of cold fury. "Go! Now!"
I clutched Brucie tightly against my chest, burying her face in the folds of my sweater to muffle any sound, and bolted down the dark corridor toward the back bedroom. My heart was hammering so violently against my ribs I thought it would burst. I pushed open the bedroom window, the cool night air hitting my sweaty skin, and hoisted myself up onto the sill, praying to every god I knew that we would make it into the trees.
But as I looked down at the ground outside, the beam of a high-powered tactical flashlight swept across the grass, blinding me instantly.
"Got movement at the rear window!" a sharp voice crackled over a comms headset from the darkness below.
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Two men in sleek, tailored black tactical suits stepped out from the shadows of the apple orchard, their hands resting casually near the holsters at their hips. They didn't look like common thugs; they looked like corporate executioners.
"Freeze right there, Ms. Costello," one of them called out smoothly. "Mr. Vance would like a word with his granddaughter."
