Page 54 of The Marriage Debt

Short bursts. Sharp and disciplined—not wild shooting. It's suppressed.

I move straight to the hardwired backup console mounted into the wall above the emergency comms kit. The screen flares to life with a slight flicker—it's grainy but functional. Interior feeds are spotty, but I’ve still got coverage across most of the estate.

The east garden lights are out. Two figures move low through the hedges, moving with intent, not speed. They don’t panic. They don’t check their corners twice. Whoever they are, they know the layout—or studied it well enough to move like they belong here.

I switch cameras. One of my men goes down near the pool, a chest hit and hard fall. He doesn't move. I grit my teeth.

Another feed shows a flash at the side garage. One of mine pops out behind the landscaping wall. He gets two shots off—clean ones. Then his head snaps back, and he drops like a ragdoll. Second one down.

I clench the edge of the desk, forcing myself to stay still. I can’t help them from in here. Not right now. If I radio them, it will go off on every com out there and every location will be exposed. I have to trust them to know their surroundings and do their jobs.

Switching angles again, I catch one of the intruders breaking off from the pair. He moves to the main stairwell, crouches low, lifts his rifle, and fires at the electronic lock in three precise shots. It's controlled, grouped, and tactical. Military background, no doubt.

This isn’t a kidnapping crew. It’s not a smash-and-grab. These are trained hitters with a specific target. And they’re too close already.

I turn from the console. Lila’s crouched with Lev, both of them still as stone. Her eyes meet mine, and she knows what I’m about to do before I say a word.

“No,” she says. “Don’t open the door.”

I cross to the weapons locker on the back wall and pull it open. Inside are two rifles, two handguns, and spare mags. I grab the Glock, load a full clip, and tuck a second into my waistband.

“They’re not after you. We're safe in here,” she says. She’s trying to keep her voice calm, but I hear the strain behind it. “You said so yourself.”

“I did,” I reply as I check the safety and meet her eyes. “That’s exactly why I’m going out there.”

She rises slightly, still holding Lev. “Please, just wait. Let Rafe handle it.” I see the fear in her eyes. It's not for herself. She's afraid for me.

“I won’t let them get past this door. I'm coming back.” I move to the panel and key in the override. The lock begins to disengage.

Lila’s voice breaks through again sharply. “Mateo, please don’t?—”

“If you and Lev weren't here,” I say, glancing at her, “they’d already be dead.”

The door opens with a low hiss. I step out and pull it shut behind me. The lock resets, and I leave them sealed in.

The hallway is silent. Emergency lights cast long, pulsing shadows as I move. My feet are bare, but my grip is steady. I’ve done this before. The tension tightens behind my ribs, not from fear but from clarity.

I reach the kitchen fast. I hear them before I see them—two voices, close. Their cadence is professional, their hand signals clear and efficient. They’re not looting or rushing. They’re clearing rooms with purpose. They’re hunting.

I slip into cover behind the archway.

When the first man crosses into the kitchen, I fire two rounds into his chest. He drops instantly. The second swings around on me and gets a shot off. It grazes my ribs, sharp and hot, but I put one through his throat before he can correct.

They collapse together and silence follows.

Blood spreads across the tile as I stay crouched, pistol raised, scanning. Both men wear stripped tactical gear with no insignia and no dog tags. They are clean and anonymous, exactly how a message gets sent.

I press a hand to my side. Warm, sticky blood seeps through my shirt, but I’m upright. That’s enough.

Rafe appears at the hallway entrance, gun raised. He freezes when he sees me, then the bodies, then the blood.

“You’re hit,” he says.

“Clipped.” I straighten slowly. “They didn’t get far.”

Rafe looks down at the shooters. “They weren’t freelance.”

“No,” I say as I stare at the door they breached through. “They were let in.”

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