Chapter 4: Blood and Oak
I didn't answer. I stood up, silently shifting my weight, positioning myself perfectly beside the edge of the hatch opening. I raised the gallon of paint above my head. My arms shook with the effort, but I locked my elbows.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Three more suppressed shots shredded the lock mechanism. The metal latch gave way, twisting into jagged shrapnel. The hatch swung downward, groaning on its old hinges.
A beam of tactical light sliced through the darkness of the attic. Tristan’s head and shoulders appeared through the opening, the suppressed pistol leading the way. He pulled himself up with the terrifying grace of a predator, his eyes scanning the far side of the room, expecting me to be cowering in the furthest corner.
He didn't look up and to his immediate right.
With a roar that tore from the deepest part of my chest—a sound born of twenty years of factory labor, a father's protective fury, and a widower's grief—I brought the gallon of paint down with every ounce of strength I possessed.
The heavy steel bottom of the paint can connected directly with Tristan’s temple.
The impact was sickeningly loud. Tristan’s eyes rolled back in his head. His finger convulsed on the trigger, sending a wild shot into the roof beams, showering us in insulation. The flashlight tumbled from his grip, rolling across the floorboards and casting wild, spinning shadows.
He fell backward, crashing halfway down the wooden attic stairs, but he didn't go unconscious. The man was trained to absorb punishment. He let out a feral snarl, blood pouring from the side of his head, and scrambled to raise the gun again.
I didn't give him the chance.
I threw my entire body weight forward, launching myself down the narrow stairs. I slammed into him, grabbing the wrist holding the gun with both hands. We tumbled down the remaining steps in a brutal tangle of limbs, crashing violently onto the hallway floor.
Pain exploded in my ribs. I gasped for air, but I refused to let go of his wrist. Tristan was younger, stronger, and lethal. He drove a knee into my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. He twisted his wrist, slowly forcing the barrel of the gun toward my chest.
"You're dead, old man," he spat, blood dripping from his face onto mine. "And when I'm done with you, I'm going to find Delilah and—"
Red and blue lights suddenly exploded through the front windows, washing the hallway in a chaotic strobe.
"FBI! DROP THE WEAPON! DROP THE WEAPON!"
The front door didn't just open; it shattered inward as a heavily armored tactical team poured into the living room. Boots pounded up the stairs like a thunderstorm.
Tristan hesitated for a fraction of a second, his head whipping toward the stairs. That was all I needed. I twisted his wrist with a sharp, violent snap. The gun clattered to the floor.
A second later, two SWAT officers hit him like a freight train, driving his face into the hardwood and pinning his arms behind his back.
Dominic was right behind them. He dropped his rifle, sliding to his knees beside me. He hauled me up, his hands checking me frantically for bullet holes.
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"Dad! Dad, are you hit? Did he shoot you?"
I coughed, holding my aching ribs, and managed a weak, breathless laugh. "No, Dom. He missed." I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the ziplock bag. I pressed it into my son's hand. "Your mother kept it safe."
