“I can still end this,” he snarled.

He stepped forward, his boots slipping slightly on the wet floor where the rain had blown in.

I watched his hand.

The trigger began to move.

The floorboards creaked under his weight.

Behind him, the monitor showed the lead vehicle ramming the iron gates.

The metal structure gave way with a loud, grinding screech that echoed even through the thick stone walls.

The sudden noise made Hayes hesitate for a single heartbeat.

I lunged.

My shoulder hit his chest, the impact driving him backward into the metal shelving.

The pistol discharged, the sound deafening in the small room.

The bullet shattered a light fixture overhead, showering us in sparks and broken glass.

I reached for his wrist, my fingers locking around his forearm.

“Let go,” Hayes grunted, his free hand clawing at my face.

“Madison, get under the desk!” I yelled.

She scrambled backward, pulling our father’s limp shoulders with her.

Hayes was strong, his grip on the weapon tight and unyielding.

We struggled against the metal shelves, knocking over boxes of old security tapes.