The glass in the study windows shattered inward, raining sharp shards across the Persian rug.

The smell of smoke and burnt gunpowder filled the air.

The lights from the police cruisers swept across the room, illuminating the swirling dust.

A shadow appeared at the shattered window frame.

Ryker raised his weapon.

“Get down!” he yelled, pulling me behind the heavy oak desk.

I huddled against the wood, my hands over my head.

A voice called out from the dust.

But it wasn’t a police officer.

It’s a voice I recognized.

“Ryker!” the voice called.

It was Celeste Reed.

She was standing on the terrace, her expensive coat stained with rain and soot.

Behind her, two men in tactical gear held assault rifles.

“Where are the children, Ryker?” Celeste asked, her voice cold and echoing through the broken window.

Ryker didn’t move from behind the desk.

“You’re a trespasser on private property, Celeste,” Ryker said. “And your friends are carrying illegal weapons.”

“The police are at your front door,” Celeste says. “They will be inside in seconds. Give me the twins, and I can make this warrant go away.”