I walked into my small cottage, my boots leaving muddy tracks on the pine floorboards.

I did not pack a bag.

I grabbed my heavy canvas jacket from the peg by the door.

The pocket held my keys and a small pocket knife.

I looked at the framed photograph of Emily on the mantelpiece.

She was smiling, her graduation gown bright under the sun.

I had promised her mother I would keep her safe.

I had promised myself I was done with violence.

Some promises had to be broken to keep others.

I reached into the back of the kitchen pantry, pulling aside the cans of soup.

Behind them was a loose floorboard.

I lifted it and pulled out a heavy metal lockbox.

Inside lay my old service weapon, a matte-black semi-automatic pistol, and two spare magazines.

I checked the chamber, slid the magazine into place, and tucked the weapon into my waistband.

I grabbed my car keys from the counter.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to hit the windshield of my old Ford pickup truck.

I started the engine, the V8 roaring to life in the quiet valley.

The wiper blades swept back and forth across the windshield, squeaking against the glass.

The dashboard clock glowed a pale, watery green.

The tires kicked up gravel as I tore down my dirt driveway.

Fairmont was twenty miles away, but I knew the back roads like the back of my hand.

The Whitmore estate sat on the highest hill in the county.

It was a fortress of brick, stone, and high-dollar security.

As I drove, the rain began to fall harder, blurring the headlights of oncoming cars.

My hands gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white.

I knew what the Whitmores were capable of.

Charles Whitmore owned the local police, the local council, and half the state senate.