She Saved Three Puppies From a Frozen Lake Before Learning the Stranger Beside Them Was the Most Feared Man in New England

Julian’s eyes instantly snapped to the window. All trace of weakness vanished from his posture, replaced by the lethal focus of a predator.

“Two snowmobiles,” Julian noted calmly, his voice cold and precise. “Four men. They’re using night-vision gear.”

Delia ran to the kitchen window, pulling back the heavy curtain an inch. Through the blinding curtain of white snow, she saw four dark figures stepping off high-powered snowmobiles at the edge of her clearing. They were holding tactical rifles, their faces covered by black thermal masks.

“Pippa,” Delia whispered in terror.

She sprinted down the hallway, slipping into her daughter’s bedroom. Pippa was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, her small face filled with confusion.

“Mommy? What’s that noise?”

“Shh, sweetie, listen to me,” Delia whispered, crouching beside the bed and taking Pippa’s small shoulders. She reached under the bed and pulled open a small wooden trapdoor that led to the cabin’s tiny root cellar—a hidden space her father had used during heavy winters. “I need you to climb down here with the puppies. Take your inhaler. Don't make a sound, no matter what you hear upstairs. Do you promise me?”

Pippa saw the absolute terror in her mother’s eyes and nodded wordlessly.

Delia quickly helped Pippa down into the cellar, then ran back to the living room, scooped up the crate of sleeping puppies, and lowered it down to her daughter before shutting the trapdoor and sliding a heavy rug over it.

When she returned to the living room, Julian was standing near the hearth.

He was leaning heavily against the stone mantle, his face pale as chalk, but in his right hand, he held a dark, heavy Glock pistol that he had pulled from an ankle holster beneath his trousers.

“You can barely stand,” Delia hissed, rushing to his side.

“I don't need to stand to shoot straight,” Julian replied quietly. He looked at her, his grey eyes softening for a fraction of a second. “Hide in the back room, Delia.”

“No,” Delia said, pulling her father’s heavy double-barreled shotgun from behind the front door. She popped the breach, verified the two red shells inside, and snapped it shut with a loud CLICK. “This is my house. I don't run from trash in ski masks.”

Julian stared at her for a moment, a sudden, dark appreciation gleaming in his eyes. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Nurse Hartwell.”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Heavy fists pounded against the front door, rattling the iron latch.

“Delia Hartwell!” a loud, abrasive voice shouted from the porch above the wind. “Open the door! State Police search and rescue!”

Delia looked at Julian. He shook his head slowly. A lie.

Delia stepped up to the door, keeping her back to the wall beside the frame, raising the shotgun to her shoulder.

“I didn't call the police!” Delia shouted back. “This is private property! Get off my porch or I’ll open fire!”

A cold, cruel laugh echoed through the door.

“We’re looking for a wreck on the lake, lady,” the voice replied, dropping the fake police accent. “A big black SUV. We saw the tracks leading toward your cabin. Open the door and let us take a look around, or we burn this wooden box to the ground with you inside it.”

Julian signaled to Delia with three fingers, pointing toward the heavy wooden door, then toward the side window.

They’re flanking us, he gestured silently.

Before Delia could react, the front window shattered inward in a shower of glass and snow. A black flashbang grenade clattered across the wooden floorboards, rolling toward the rug.

“Cover your eyes!” Julian roared.

Delia threw herself behind the heavy oak dining table just as the grenade exploded with a deafening FLASH-BANG!

A blinding white light filled the room, accompanied by a sound so loud it felt like a physical hammer striking her ears. Her vision went completely black, her ears ringing with high-pitched noise.

Through the haze of smoke and ringing, she heard the front door kick open with a splintering crash.

Two armed men burst into the room, their rifles raised.

THWACK! THWACK!

Two rapid gunshots echoed through the cabin—crisp, controlled, and deadly.

The two men collapsed onto the floor before they could even aim their weapons, hit cleanly in the chest by Julian’s Glock.

Julian stood near the hearth, his gun steady, though blood was beginning to soak through his white bandages from the immense physical strain.

A third man lunged through the broken window, aiming his rifle directly at Julian’s back.

“Julian, behind you!” Delia screamed.

Without looking, Delia raised her father’s shotgun and pulled the front trigger.

BOOM!

The massive recoil slammed Delia’s shoulder back against the wall, but the heavy blast of buckshot struck the attacker squarely in the chest, blowing him backward out the window into the snowdrift outside.

The fourth man, seeing three of his team wiped out in less than thirty seconds, let out a curse, turned on his heel, and sprinted back toward the snowmobiles.

A second later, the roar of an engine fired up, rapidly fading into the distance.

Silence returned to the cabin, save for the howling wind and the crackle of the wood stove.

Delia sat on the floor, her hands shaking violently as she dropped the empty shotgun onto her lap. Smoke filled the room, smelling of gunpowder, burnt wood, and copper.

Julian slowly lowered his gun. He looked down at the three men lying motionless on the rug, then turned his gaze to Delia.

He walked over to her, dropping to one knee despite the agonizing pain in his side. He reached out his large, warm hand and gently touched her jaw, forcing her to look up into his stormy grey eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice rough with genuine concern.

Delia shook her head, her chest heaving as she panted for air. “I... I shot a man.”

“You saved my life again,” Julian said softly, his thumb gently wiping a speck of gunpowder ash from her cheek. “You’re a warrior, Delia Hartwell.”

Suddenly, the floorboards beneath the rug knocked.

Pippa’s voice called out faintly from the root cellar. “Mommy? Is it over?”

Delia let out a shuddering sob of relief. She pulled away from Julian, threw the rug aside, and pulled the trapdoor open. Pippa scrambled out, throw her arms tightly around her mother’s neck. The three puppies tumbled out behind her, yapping softly.

Julian watched the mother and child hold each other tightly.

He stood up slowly, stepping toward the shattered front window, looking out into the white abyss of the blizzard.

The immediate danger had passed, but Julian knew the reality of his world. Thomas Mercer would not stop. By morning, a full convoy of Mercer’s hitmen would be descending on Cedar Hollow.