I stopped, pressing my back against the stairwell wall.

“Back down,” I whispered to Rachel.

She began to guide the children back down the steps, her movements quick but quiet.

I raised my Beretta and aimed at the top of the stairs.

The sliding glass door slid open with a soft hiss.

A man in a heavy black parka stepped into the salon, carrying an automatic rifle.

He was looking down at a tablet in his hand.

“The hold door is open,” he said into his radio. “Check the lower corridor.”

He stepped toward the stairs.

I didn’t wait for him to look down.

I fired twice.

The bullets struck him in the chest, the silenced cracks of the gun swallowed by the sound of the wind.

He stumbled backward, his rifle clattering against the polished teak floor of the salon.

He fell onto the sofa, his tablet sliding across the rug.

I ran up the remaining steps and grabbed the rifle before he could move.

He was breathing heavily, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.