Chapter Nineteen

R yker found himself in the lush green of the terrarium for the past few mornings.

The plants soothed him like nothing else could.

He'd avoided Marshal since the incident nearly a week ago, but he knew he couldn't avoid the guy forever. He needed time to process the hurt and once his anger cooled, he began to wonder why Marshal had said those words to Bishop.

There was a reason and Marshal would tell him.

Right? Maybe.

Or maybe the man would pay him lip service to cover his ass since he'd been caught badmouthing him.

Brandon and Chad had become worried about him and had started following him around the estate. He shared with Chad a little bit, but that was it.

"There might be a reason why he said that," Chad had said.

"I know, but I'm not ready to hear it." That plus he was scared that the reason Marshal had said those things was because he didn't measure up. But then hadn't Marshal himself said that he didn't mean it?

He sighed and picked up the small hose to finish watering the potted ivy that filled one of the long greenery-filled benches.

A sound suddenly filtered into the room from out in the main hall.

It was odd.

It sounded like muffled shouting or screaming. Then a distant popping sound had Ryker shutting off the water.

Rushing to the door, he hurried out of the terrarium and ran into Chad standing in the hallway.

"Stay here. Okay?" Chad gripped him by the shoulders until he reluctantly nodded.

"Lock this door when I go out," Chad ordered once they reached the heavy oak door that accessed the main hallway.

"It's gunfire, isn't it." He gripped the man he considered a friend by the arm.

"Yes." Chad pulled the handgun he had tucked into his shoulder holster. "I'll get Brandon and we'll be right back for you. Nobody can get through this door, so lock it."

"Take the access passageways," Ryker hissed as Chad cracked the door. Chad nodded and slipped through and Ryker locked the door.

He slid down the wall and gripped his knees as the gunfire came muffled through the thick wood.

Ten minutes passed and Ryker couldn't stand it any longer. He had to find out what the hell was going on.

Plus, what if Chad needed help?

Flipping the lock, he cracked the heavy oak door just a smidge to get a peek through the small opening and out into the hall.

He held his breath when two heavily armed men he didn't recognize walked past. Several more men converged into the entryway and from what he could see, they all wore similar black suits.

None of them were bodyguards or FBI. Most carried handguns and some held semi-automatic rifles.

Easing the door closed, Ryker dialed 911 and stayed on the phone.

"There's been a break-in," he told the operator, describing what he'd seen. He gave his name and address.

She assured him she was sending squad cars immediately, and Ryker ended the call even though she had told him to stay on the line.

He had to make a move and soon—even knowing that when he went out there, he might be killed. But, if he didn't go out there, then his family could be killed.

He could almost hear his father and Marshal's voices telling him to stay the hell put, and Chad and Brandon would have heart attacks if he went out.

Though, he had no choice but to go out there. There were three types of people in the world. Those who froze, those who ran, and those who rushed into danger. He had always been and always would be a rusher inner.

It was in his nature.

And he already had a plan.

He just needed to get to the access panel and that would take him out of sight. From there, he could remain unseen and get to his rooms on the third floor to retrieve his handgun.

A weapon he knew how to use. Not only that, but he was trained in fighting. One of the first things Marshal had done when first employed with them was teach him how to defend himself. Chad and Brandon had sparred with him and also kept his marksmanship skills sharp at the shooting range.

When the coast looked clear, he slipped out the door and cut a right toward the servants' quarters.

He froze.

Chad hadn't made it far.

Two bullet holes in the bodyguard's chest bloomed red, staining Chad's white dress shirt.

Gritting his teeth, Ryker fought back tears of rage and anguish as he crouched next to Chad's body resting against the wall. Touching the skin on Chad's neck, there was no pulse. He glanced around, but Chad's weapon was missing.

The fuckers were going to pay.

Ryker ran. He took the backstairs upward. The access panel he was looking for was just a few stairs above. Through there, he could make it to the third floor where his rooms were located and he'd be golden.

"Stop right there."

Ryker swung around on a man standing below him on the stairs. Using his momentum, Ryker delivered a roundhouse kick to the guy's face.

The fucker flew backward and rolled down the stairs, knocked out cold. Ryker was tempted to grab the man's gun and shoot him, but the weapon was now lying at the bottom of the stairs and he didn't have time to retrieve it.

That was okay.

One down…fuck only knew how many more to go.

He could do this. They would all fucking pay for killing Chad. He would take them out one by fucking one. Racing to the panel, he pushed and it clicked open. Sliding inside, he closed the door and pulled his phone from his pocket.

He shot a text to Marshal and then turned his phone to silent before hurrying upward in the secret passageway to where another panel opened into his rooms.

The secret hallways and access panels were numerous throughout the house. He could disappear and come out somewhere completely different and still remain inside the estate.

The place had been built by his family's ancestors back during the civil war and there were places to hide that the enemy could never find.

The walkways ran hidden behind walls and beneath stairwells, up to every floor, plus down to the basement, and he planned on sticking inside those passageways while he figured out what the hell was going on.

Ryker changed into a black DIOR classic three-piece suit. It might get bloody out there and he wanted to fit in as long as possible. He pulled on a dark ball cap over his head and slapped makeup over the pinkish scar on his face.

Tucking the Glock into the back of his pants, he turned toward the door.

Whoever these fuckers were, they had messed with the wrong family.

Toughness had been knocked into him starting from when he was a little boy.

If nothing else, he was his father's son.