The Rottweiler lunged. Its teeth sank into the flesh of Amari's calf.
Amari let out a weak, breathless scream. Her body jerked against the rough bark of the oak tree.
Kyler stood ten feet away. He threw his head back and laughed. He held his phone up, recording the blood dripping down Amari's leg.
Inside the living room, Delma and Jazmyne sat on the white sofa. They clinked two crystal glasses of red wine together.
A low rumble vibrated through the floorboards. The sound grew louder. It turned into a deafening, rhythmic chopping noise.
Outside, a massive gust of wind hit the backyard. The plastic lawn chairs flipped over and smashed against the fence.
Kyler lowered his phone. He looked up. Three massive black helicopters hovered directly over the house.
The noise was absolute. The Rottweiler flattened its ears. It released Amari's leg. It tucked its tail between its legs and bolted under the porch.
The lead helicopter didn't touch the ground. The side door slid open.
Andres grabbed a thick black rope. He slid down. He dropped fifteen feet and hit the muddy grass. His knees bent to absorb the impact.
He didn't pause. He sprinted straight toward the oak tree, his medical kit swinging from his shoulder, his eyes locked entirely on the bleeding little girl.
Behind him, a heavily armored tactical guard slid down the rope. The guard landed, his rifle already raised. He aimed. He pulled the trigger.
Bang. The bullet hit the dog under the porch. Its head snapped back. It dropped dead.
Kyler dropped his phone. He screamed. His legs gave out. He collapsed into a puddle of mud.
Andres sprinted to the oak tree. He saw Amari slumped against the trunk. Her dress was soaked in blood.
His eyes turned rimmed with red. His hands shook as he grabbed the thick nylon rope. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and sliced through the knots.
The tension released. Amari fell forward. Andres dropped the knife. He caught her. Her small, limp body pressed against his chest.
The other two helicopters touched down on the street in front of the house.
Fifteen tactical guards kicked the wrought-iron front gates open. They swarmed the porch. They smashed the front door off its hinges.
Delma jumped. The wine glass slipped from her fingers. It shattered on the expensive Persian rug. Red wine soaked into the fabric like blood.
Jazmyne opened her mouth to scream. A guard grabbed her by the back of the neck. He slammed her face-down onto the glass coffee table. The glass cracked.
Barron walked through the broken doorway. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit.
His leather shoes stepped on the broken wine glass. The shards crunched under his weight.
He stopped in front of the sofa. He looked down at the two women. His eyes held the cold, empty stare of a man looking at roadkill.
Outside, sirens wailed. Four state police cruisers skidded to a halt at the end of the street.
The officers got out. They looked at the men in tactical gear. They looked at the helicopters. They pulled yellow tape from their trunks and blocked off the street. They did not take a single step closer.
Andres ran out of the backyard. He held Amari tight against his chest.
A medical team rushed out of the lead chopper. They pushed a mobile stretcher across the lawn.
Andres laid Amari on the white mattress. He grabbed an oxygen mask and strapped it over her pale face.
He turned to Barron. "She's losing too much blood. We need a Level 1 trauma center right now."
The medics pushed the stretcher up the ramp into the helicopter. Andres jumped in behind them. The doors slammed shut. The chopper lifted off, leaving the house behind.
