In his right hand, he held a sleek black pistol with a thick suppressor attached to the barrel.

He didn’t look at me; his eyes were locked on the door.

With his left hand, he gently pushed me and the children further into the recess of the cellar.

The wood of the door splintered with a sharp crack.

A boot kicked the door open, sending a gust of cold air and the smell of gunpowder into the room.

The beam of a tactical flashlight sliced through the dusty air.

“Clear the left,” a gruff voice commanded from the hallway.

A man dressed in charcoal-grey tactical gear stepped through the threshold.

His helmet visor reflected the dim light of the cellar.

He raised a short-barreled assault rifle, sweeping it toward the wine racks.

Ryker stepped out from the shadow of a brick pillar.

He fired twice.

The muffled pops of his suppressed pistol were incredibly quiet compared to the gunfire upstairs.

The mercenary collapsed instantly, his rifle clattering against the stone floor.

Ryker caught the man’s body before it hit the ground, guiding it down with minimal noise.