Chapter 10 - THE FINAL BULLET
-10-
The cold metal of the pistol barrel pressed deeper into the soft flesh of my neck. Across the snow-covered lawn, Emily stopped dead in her tracks, her hand hovering over the passenger door handle of our sedan as she saw me trapped on the front porch.
“Daniel!” her scream pierced the freezing mountain air like shattered glass.
Lily began crying hysterically again, pressing her face against Emily’s coat.
“Don't move another inch, Mrs. Vance,” the gunman shouted across the lawn, keeping his weapon jammed firmly against my spine. “Or your husband’s brains will decorate this front porch before you can even touch the door handle.”
I stared out at my family, my mind racing through a dozen impossible scenarios. I knew he was going to pull the trigger the second he had what he wanted. Men like him didn't leave loose ends, and they certainly didn't let witnesses walk away after discovering a dying woman in a basement bunker.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” I whispered, keeping my voice low so only he could hear. “The moment you pull this trigger, the entire archive automatically uploads to federal investigators via a dead-man switch on my phone.”
The gunman gave a dark, humorless chuckle. “A dead-man switch? Mr. Vance, you’ve watched too many movies. There is no switch. There is only you, bleeding out on your family’s doorstep.”
His finger began to tighten against the trigger. The cold pressure on my neck shifted, the hammer cocking back with a sharp, metallic click that sounded louder than thunder.
I closed my eyes, taking one last deep breath of the freezing mountain air, bracing for the impact.
CRACK.
The sound of the gunshot echoed off the surrounding pine trees, shaking loose a cascade of snow from the branches overhead.
I waited for the burning agony of lead tearing through my flesh.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Nothing hurt.
I opened my eyes.
The gunman standing behind me suddenly stiffened. His eyes went wide, staring blankly ahead, before his knees buckled completely. He dropped his pistol, his body collapsing backward onto the marble porch floor with a heavy, lifeless thud.
Standing at the edge of the open front doors, holding a heavy-caliber hunting rifle that still wisped with thin blue smoke from its barrel, was my mother.
She was standing on her own two feet, leaning heavily against the doorframe, her face pale as a ghost, her designer sweater stained dark with blood, but her grip on the rifle stock unshakable and steady as a rock.
“You… you never underestimate a Vance,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she lowered the rifle barrel and stared down at the man lying dead at her feet.
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“Mom!” I shouted, dropping to my knees beside her.
Before she could answer, the wail of approaching sirens began echoing up through the mountain pass—not one police cruiser, but a half-dozen state trooper vehicles and federal black-and-whites with their red and blue lights flashing brilliantly against the white snow, cutting through the shadows of the forest like a beacon of absolute dawn.
