The candles had burned down to stubs by the time the first heavy thud hit the front door. Kane was already out of the armchair, Glock in one hand, the other reaching for the Mk18 case at his feet. The sound wasn't wind or a branch. It was deliberate—a boot kicking wood.
Liora's voice came sharp from her room. "Daddy?"
"Stay in bed," he called back, low and calm. "I've got it."
Another kick. Harder. The doorframe rattled. Voices outside, muffled but close—two, maybe three men arguing in harsh whispers. "It's dark, man. Nobody's home. Just kick it in and grab what we can."
Kane's stomach tightened. He moved fast but quiet, flipping the safety off the Mk18 and threading the suppressor the rest of the way on. The metal was cold under his fingers. He crossed to Liora's door, flashlight off, relying on the faint starlight leaking through the blinds. She was sitting up in bed, blanket clutched to her chest, hazel eyes wide in the dark.
"Bad guys?" she whispered.
"Sounds like it," he said. "I need you in the safe spot. Bathroom. Now."
She didn't argue. She slid out of bed in her T-shirt and socks, small feet padding fast across the hardwood. Kane followed her into the hall bathroom, set the flashlight on the sink pointing at the ceiling so it gave a soft glow without blinding, and piled two sandbags against the door after she climbed into the tub.
"Stay down," he told her, crouching so they were eye level. "Cover your ears if it gets loud. I'll come get you when it's over. You're safe in here. Promise."
Her lip trembled, but she nodded and curled up small against the tub wall, knees to her chest. "Okay, Daddy. Don't get hurt."
He closed the door behind him, heard the latch click, and turned toward the front of the house. The kicking had turned to pounding. A window in the living room shattered with a crash—glass raining onto the carpet. Cold night air rushed in. Voices got louder.
"Back door's probably open too. Split up."
Kane's breath stayed even. He moved to the hallway corner, back pressed to the wall, Mk18 up and ready. The house was small and familiar—he knew every angle, every shadow. He pieced the living room first, muzzle sweeping slow, checking the broken window. One man was already halfway through, leg over the sill, a crowbar in his hand. Behind him, two more shapes moved in the yard.
The first looter saw him and froze for half a second. "Shit—there's somebody—"
Kane fired twice. The suppressor made it sound like hard coughs. Center mass. The man dropped back outside with a wet thud, crowbar clattering on the porch.
Adrenaline hit sharp, but Kane kept moving. He cleared the living room fast—left to right, checking behind the couch, the TV stand. Brass from the two rounds rolled across the hardwood with tiny metallic ticks. The air already smelled like burnt powder and the cold outside wind.
A second man kicked the front door harder. The deadbolt held, but the wood around it splintered. Kane pivoted to the entryway, staying low. He waited until the door burst open, then put two more rounds through the gap. The man staggered back, clutching his chest, and fell onto the porch steps. A third guy was right behind him, shotgun raised. Kane dropped to a knee, pieing the corner of the doorframe, and fired once more. The shotgun clattered down the steps.
Three down. Two left.
He heard footsteps crunching glass in the kitchen—someone coming through the back door he'd reinforced yesterday. Kane moved down the short hall, rifle up, clearing each doorway as he passed. The kitchen smelled like the peanut-butter sandwiches from earlier, now mixed with the metallic tang of blood drifting in from outside. A fourth man was halfway through the broken window over the sink, knife in one hand, reaching for the counter.
Kane fired twice. The man slumped forward over the sill, blood spraying dark across the white cabinets. The sound of it hitting tile was wet and final.
One more.
The last looter was outside, yelling now. "They're shooting! Fuck this—run!"
Kane didn't chase. He cleared the rest of the kitchen, then the back door, sweeping the yard through the firing port he'd cut yesterday. The fifth man was already sprinting across the neighbor's lawn, stumbling in the dark. Kane tracked him for a second, finger off the trigger. No need. The guy disappeared between houses.
He stood there a moment, rifle still up, listening. No more footsteps. No more voices. Just the wind and the distant pops of gunfire somewhere else in the city. His hands were steady, but his pulse thumped hard in his ears. The house reeked of cordite now, sharp and bitter, mixed with the iron smell of blood and the faint sour fear-sweat on his own skin. Brass casings lay scattered across the floor like dull gold coins. One of the dead men outside groaned once, then went quiet.
Kane cleared the whole house again—room by room, slow and careful—before he finally lowered the rifle. He checked the front door, dragged the two bodies on the porch out into the yard and left them there. No time for anything else. The blood on the steps looked black in the starlight. He closed the shattered door as best he could, wedged a chair under the knob, and piled more sandbags against it.
Only then did he go to the bathroom.
He knocked soft. "Liora. It's me. It's over."
The door opened a crack. She peeked out, eyes huge. When she saw him standing there unhurt, she pushed the door wide and threw her arms around his waist, face pressed into his stomach. Her small body shook.
"I heard the bangs," she whispered. "I covered my ears like you said. Are they gone?"
"They're gone." He knelt and hugged her back, one hand still holding the rifle at his side. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and the faint soap from her bath earlier. "You did good staying put. Real good."
She pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her voice was small but steady. "Did you… have to shoot them?"
He nodded once. No point sugarcoating it. "Yeah. They broke in. They were going to take our stuff. Maybe hurt us. It was them or us, kid. That's all."
Liora swallowed hard, freckles standing out pale against her skin. She didn't cry. She just nodded, like she was trying to fit the words into her head. "Okay. Can we… can we clean it up tomorrow? I don't like the smell."
"We'll clean what we can," he said. "But right now we stay inside. Doors blocked. Lights off. You sleep in my room tonight."
She didn't argue. She held his hand tight as they walked down the hall, stepping around the brass on the floor. Kane grabbed the spare blanket from the closet and made a quick bed for her on the floor beside his mattress. She curled up without complaint, one hand reaching out to touch his boot like she needed to know he was still there.
He sat on the edge of the bed, rifle across his lap, and listened to the night. The distant gunfire had picked up—more of it, closer to the main roads. A siren wailed once, then died. Someone screamed far off, cut short.
Liora's breathing slowed after a while, but her fingers stayed wrapped around the edge of his boot. She was out, exhausted, trusting him to keep the dark away.
Kane stayed awake, eyes on the window, the taste of cordite still on his tongue. The house felt smaller now, tighter, the sandbags and broken glass turning it into something that wasn't quite home anymore.
Denver wasn't just dark.
It was breaking.
And the five bodies in the yard were only the beginning.