The Stranger Said I Was The Only One Who Kept My Word That Night—Hours Later, Armed Men Tore My Apartment Apart For A Deed Hidden In My Closet

Before Emily could answer, Atlas stopped chewing on his rawhide and pressed his ears flat against his skull. The dog let out a sharp whine, his eyes fixed on the dark marsh beyond the rear porch windows.

Luke extinguished the single lamp on the table with a flick of his wrist.

""Stay down,"" he murmured.

Emily dropped to her knees beside the counter, her heart hammering against her ribs. In the pale moonlight slicing through the clouds, she saw Luke move toward the corner of the room. He reached behind the cedar paneling and produced a short-barreled Remington twelve-gauge shotgun, cycling the action with a crisp, terrifying clack-clack.

Out on the sound, the low, wet thrum of a diesel engine echoed across the water.

It was the same rhythmic idle she had heard at Reed's Landing.

Emily crawled to the edge of the window sill, peering through the blinds. Gliding through the shallow channel between the oyster stakes was the workboat with the yellow stripe. But this time, it wasn't alone. Behind it trailed a sleek, black-hulled Zodiac inflatable boat carrying four men in tactical rain gear.

""They didn't find the maps in your apartment,"" Luke said, his voice flat and steady. ""The intruder didn't go back to Carl Vance. He tracked my truck.""

""How could he track us through a hurricane?""

""AirTag or a magnetic transponder slapped onto my frame while I was inside your kitchen,"" Luke replied without taking his eyes off the shoreline. ""They know I'm the only person who can pull a skiff through Blackwater Sound at low tide. They think we have the papers here.""

""Luke, there are four of them. Five including the boatman.""

""On the water, numbers don't matter,"" Luke said. He reached down, pulling a heavy duffel bag from under the bed, unzipping it to reveal maritime flares, heavy nylon ropes, and a pair of military-grade night-vision goggles. ""They have modern gear, but they don't know the bottom of this creek. At high water, the sandbars shift every fifteen minutes. They're about to run right into the middle of my nursery.""

He looked at Emily. In the shadows, his eyes were razor-sharp, completely free of fear. ""I need you to listen to me very carefully. You and Atlas are going down through the trapdoor under the pantry. It leads to the skiff tied beneath the pilings. You start the engine, untie the stern line, and wait for my signal.""

""I am not leaving you behind!"" Emily snapped, surprised by the sudden, vicious steel in her own voice.

Luke blinked, a shadow of an amused smirk crossing his mouth despite the circumstances. ""I'm not asking you to leave me behind, Emily. I'm asking you to be the getaway driver. I can't steer a boat and keep them from boarding us at the same time.""

He handed her the painter line to Atlas's harness. ""Atlas will stay between you and anyone who isn't me. If they get too close, let go of the lead. He knows what to do.""

A heavy spotlight suddenly blazed from the workboat, searing through the windows of the cedar cabin. Glass exploded outward as high-velocity rifle fire tore through the exterior walls, ripping pine studs and shattering kitchen cabinets.

Atlas roared, throwing his front paws forward.

""Go! Now!"" Luke bellowed, turning toward the broken window and leveling the shotgun.

Emily hauled open the pantry hatch. Atlas dropped down without hesitation into the waist-deep black tide swirling beneath the house. Emily took a ragged breath and dropped into the freezing water beside him.

Above her head, the house erupted into war. The deafening blast of Luke’s shotgun boomed through the floorboards, followed immediately by the shout of men in the reeds and the unmistakable crack of return fire.

Emily waded through the surge, her fingers numb, grasping for the gunwale of the low wooden skiff tied to the center piling. Atlas scrambled over the side, water cascading from his brindled coat. Emily dragged herself aboard, reaching for the pull-cord of the ancient thirty-horsepower Yamaha outboard motor.

She gripped the handle, set the choke, and pulled with every ounce of strength she possessed.

The engine sputtered, coughed, and died.

Out on the dock, heavy boots thudded against the timber. A man leaped down onto the floating dock ten feet away, an assault rifle slung across his chest. He turned his flashlight beam directly into her eyes.