A split second later, the front windows exploded.

The sound was deafening, a rapid-fire roar that shredded the heavy drapes.

Shards of glass rained down in sharp, heavy sheets, slicing through the air.

The smell of burnt gunpowder and sulfur immediately filled the small library, mixing with the damp scent of the rain.

Plaster dust erupted from the walls, filling the air with a chalky, bitter taste.

I pressed my cheek against the cold floor, wrapping my arms over my head.

Above me, the bullets tore through the bookshelves.

Paperback novels and heavy leather encyclopedias burst into confetti, snowing down on my back.

Declan was already on his knees, his gun raised.

He fired back through the ruined window, the muzzle flashes lighting up the dust-choked room.

“Stay still!” he yelled over the noise.

I squeezed my eyes shut as a stray bullet chipped the mahogany desk, showering my hair with sharp wood splinters.

The engine roared outside, tires screeching against the wet gravel of the driveway.

Another burst of automatic fire swept across the room, shattering a porcelain vase on a side table.