Page 32 of Darkwater Lane (Stillhouse Lake #7)

GWEN

I wake that night to the world exploding around me.

There’s an eruption of shouting from outside and then the sound of splintering wood as someone breaks down our front door.

Glass shatters. The alarm starts shrieking.

I don’t have time to think. I act on instinct, the motions perfected from hundreds of hours of drilling and practicing.

I dive for the safe under the bed. Within seconds, I’ve used my fingerprint to release the biometric lock and have my Sig Sauer in hand, its weight familiar and comforting.

As always, my shoes sit next to the bed, ready for me to slip my feet into them without having to pause. Across the room, Sam is also up and armed. His face is unreadable—his jaw set and eyes hard. Soldier Mode. He gestures for me to fall back as he crouches toward the bedroom door.

My kids , I think. Our kids. Their rooms are off the hallway between us and the front door. Between me and whatever violence has just crashed into our house.

I need to get to them. It’s not an option. It’s a primal urge so deeply fixed that there’s no overriding it.

I sprint to the door .

“Gwen, wait,” Sam hisses, his voice barely audible over the blaring siren. But he knows better than to try to stop me.

I have the good sense to drop low when I ease open the bedroom door just wide enough to get a look down the hallway. The air is filled with shouts—commands. The words tangle with the screeching alarm. Beams of light cut through the darkness, spearing the walls and landing on Connor’s bedroom door.

A man dressed in all black with a helmet and flak vest sneaks down the hall.

He carries an assault rifle, barrel not fully raised but not pointed at the floor either.

His finger rests against the trigger guard, ready to fall against the trigger and start pulling.

He looks military or police, but I can’t be sure.

“Gwen Proctor!” he shouts, voice low, and authoritative, and brimming with outrage. “Sam Cade! Drop your weapons and come out with your hands where we can see them.”

I glance at Sam. What the fuck? He shakes his head. He doesn’t know either.

A frisson of fear lances through me. I face a moment of indecision.

My first instinct is to obey their order.

It’s been ingrained in me since I was young to respect the police and their authority.

However, twice men impersonated police officers to gain entry to our house. Both times, they kidnapped my son.

I don’t trust the police. I can’t. Not after that.

If these men even are the police. For all I know, they could be part of some fringe militia group.

My breathing is short and tight as I try to figure out my next move. There must be half a dozen men crowded into my house at this point, all of them in full combat gear and carrying assault rifles.

The man in front pauses by the first door in the hallway. Connor’s room. He bangs a fist on it. “Police! Drop any weapons and get down on the floor, hands out to your sides.”

He tries the knob, but it’s locked. Good boy, Connor , I think to myself. He’s doing what I always told him to do: lock the door against any potential threats.

It doesn’t matter. The man nods to a second man behind him who appears with a heavy metal battering ram. He swings it at the door. Wood splinters. I hear my son scream.

That’s what breaks me.

“Stop it!” I yell, bursting from the room, taking the chance that these men are police. Anything to take their attention off my son.

The man on point pivots in my direction.

I watch as his eyes clock my gun. It’s by my side, but that doesn’t matter.

He swings his long gun around, raising it as he trains it on me.

“Gun!” he yells at the top of his lungs.

“Gun! Gun! Gun!” The other officers join in the chant, the sounds mixing with the blaring alarm, the entire house a chaos of overwhelming noise.

The tension in the air is too thick. Too charged. I can practically smell their fear-tinged aggression. The point man is a heartbeat away from pulling the trigger.

I drop my weapon and immediately splay my fingers wide to show I’m not holding anything else. I’m terrified to raise my hands in case he sees that as an act of aggression. Any movement will get me shot.

“Down!” he shouts. “Get down now!”

There’s too much white in his eyes. It belies his fear. A scared man is a dangerous man. I do as he says. But first, I kick the gun down the hallway and out of reach.

The minute my knees hit the floor, two more armed men pounce on me. They’re not gentle as they wrench my arms behind my back and pin them in place.

“Where’s the girl?” one of them shouts. His face is so close that his spittle sprays the side of my cheek.

More men swarm the house. Overhead, a helicopter roars, its spotlight cutting against the windows. “What’s going on?” I cry, trying to understand what’s happening. “Who are you? ”

The man shakes me roughly. “The girl!”

Does he mean Lanny? I shake my head. No way. I’m not giving them anything, especially when it comes to my kids.

“Where’s the girl your neighbors heard screaming for help earlier, followed by the sound of gunshots.”

Two more men break down the door to Lanny’s room. They storm through it, tossing the blankets from her bed and kicking over a chair in the corner. When they throw open her closet doors, I hear a muffled scream.

I struggle against the man pinning me to the ground. “Leave my daughter alone!”

The men ignore me. One of them crouches in front of where Lanny cowers in the corner of the closet. His flashlight hits on her tearstained cheeks. “It’s okay, darlin’.”

Her eyes find me, still in the hallway. “Mom?”

I only see her mouth move; there’s too much noise to hear the actual word.

Everything inside me howls to tell her it’s okay, but I can’t. Because I don’t understand what the fuck is going on.

“What’s happening?” I cry. “We haven’t done anything wrong!”

There’s shouting from outside. Then, a gunshot. Followed by two more.

The bottom drops out of my world. I start fighting harder, spitting and cursing.

Someone calls, “Medic!”

My entire body starts to tremble. Someone’s hurt.

I don’t know where Sam is. Or Connor. What if they tried sneaking out? It’s part of what we’ve practiced: fleeing out the window and disappearing into the woods until you can meet up at the rendezvous point—the shed behind Easy Claremont’s house.

What if one of them was running for the woods, and one of these men opened fire? What if my son or my partner is lying on the ground, bleeding out ?

Bile rises in my throat. “Let me go!” I demand, bucking and twisting. Trying to get my teeth or nails into flesh.

There’s more commotion outside. It’s all happening so fast. It’s too much. I don’t understand what’s going on. Why are these men here? Why are they pointing guns at me and my daughter?

Lanny’s face drains of color. She looks like a child with her oversized sleep shirt and freshly scrubbed face. She is a child.

The man pinning me to the floor presses more of his body weight against my back, trying to keep me still. My ribs protest. “Who else is here?” he demands.

I don’t answer. I can’t. It’s too difficult to draw air. Not that I would tell him a damn thing anyway.

“Who!” His knee digs against my spine. The last of my breath comes out in a wheeze as he squeezes every last bit of air from my lungs.

Pressure in my skull builds, turning to pain behind my eyes as my cheeks burn and lips tingle. I can’t breathe. My oxygen is running out. Animal instincts kick in, and I fight to free myself. The man shifts his entire weight on top of me.

Lanny screams. “Let her go!”

There’s a scuffle in her bedroom. Seconds later, one of the men comes out, his arms wrapped tightly around Lanny’s middle, her arms pinned to her sides. She thrashes against him. Kicks at the empty air. “Mom!” The word is a wail. She’s terrified.

It cuts deep. She needs me. That’s what I think as the world blurs and darkens around me. My lungs burn. I squirm, trying to find space to breathe, trying to free myself so I can get to my daughter. The man on top of me doesn’t budge.

“Mom!” she screams again as they drag her from the house.

Not again. Please, don’t let these men be taking my kids. It’s already happened twice—both times from this house. Both times by either the police or men impersonating the police .

Both times, in an attempt to punish me and my family. To exact revenge.

Images flash in my head—all the photos I’ve been sent over the years. Mutilated bodies with my kids’ faces photoshopped on top. Deepfake videos showing my children being tortured.

The horror threatens to drown me.

A nearby radio squawks, but I can’t make out the words. All I know is that someone with a gruff voice says. “All clear inside. Cuff her and bring her out.”

The man pinning me grinds his knee harder into my back for a moment longer.

Then, all at once, the pressure is gone.

I draw in a stilted, ragged, painful breath.

Before I can press my hands to my aching ribs, he grabs my wrists.

Within seconds, he has me cuffed and is hauling me to my feet. I’m unsteady, my knees nearly buckling.

Someone turned on the hall lights and, for the first time, I get a good look at the guy who was pinning me in place. He’s medium height but broad and thick, his neck practically wider than his jaw. His eyes are blue and piercing, his hair dark, and his cheeks pebbled with a five o’clock shadow.

In another situation, I might have seen him as attractive. Not now. Not when my back still throbs from his knee. Not when I can still hear the vitriol in his voice when he shouted commands at me earlier.

“My kids,” I manage to croak. “Are they okay?”

He looks at me with disgust. “There’s a special place in hell for parents who traffic their kids.”

I blink, shaking my head in confusion. “Traffic kids? What are you talking about?”