ordered, as obnoxious as it was authoritative.
What the hell are they doing here? Ryan wondered. “Just a minute.” He peered through an eye-hole, seeing at least three men in the vague street light, while he listened to Robb's message.
“Ryan, it's urgent. I've been trying to get a hold of you all day”—Ryan was confused, he always checked his phone before going to bed—“please contact me as soon as you can.”
“Open the door, Ryan!” The command was emphasized with a violent shaking of the door knob. The wood frame shuddered—the men outside were set to tear the door from its hinges—and it instantly reminded Ryan of the flimsy aluminum trailer door from his youth.
Ryan stalled, pressing the phone to call Robb. “Stop! Or I'll call the police,” he spoke through the door.
“I wouldn't do that,” the voice warned.
“It's the middle of the night. How can I be sure of who you say you are?” Ryan needed to buy time.
“We have ID.”
“Sure, that's convenient.”
The tinned voice of a sleepy man crackled from his phone. “Ryan, it's three AM, what the hell?” It was Robb.
Ryan couldn't answer. Just then his wife came down the stairs. She was scared and angry. “What's going on?” She demanded.
“Call the police,” Ryan whispered.
“Why?” Her face paled.
“Ryan are you there?” said the phone.
“I don't know,” Ryan answered his wife.
“Who's there? Is there something you're not telling me?” She looked ready to vomit.
“No.”
“Then what?” Her voice conveyed her doubt.
“I don't know.” The look of confusion on Ryan's face softened her suspicion.
“Who are they?” She asked loudly, gesturing toward the door.
“Homeland Security, Ma'am,” the voice answered. Then it became threatening, “Ryan, we have authority to break down this door.”
His wife ran from the room.
“I doubt that!” Ryan retorted.
“Ryan,” said the phone, “what's happening? Who's there?”
“I'm not opening the door!” Ryan fortified. Then his eldest, a boy of ten, appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Dad, what's going on?” the boy said sleepily, shakily descending.
“Go back to bed, son.” Ryan tried to soothe him but his words were harsh. His son's eyes opened wide.
“Ryan, speak to me! Can I help?” Came Robb's voice.
“No!” Ryan heard his wife shout in anger. She burst into the room. “The house phone isn't working!”
Ryan immediately put the cell phone to his ear. “Robb, listen to me. There are at least three men outside of my door. They claim to be from Homeland Security. My landline is dead. I don't...”
“I'll look into it immediately.” Robb was instantly awake and fully serious.
“What do you know?” Ryan's heart fell.
“Can't tell you now.” Robb hung up. “This was supposed to have been taken care of”—
“We're coming in!” The outside voice insisted. “Stand back!”
With a terrific thud, a crowbar was wedged into the door frame and the entire door shifted sideways. The wood groaned and the jamb cracked sharply and split open. Immediately, a heavy boot was applied to the weakened frame. The deadbolt exploded into pieces and the door gave way, swinging into the side wall where it stuck fast, the door knob embedded in the plaster.
His wife screamed. His son ran to his arms.
“Dad!” He sobbed. “What's going on?” He clung to his father.
Three men stepped onto his foyer. Ryan wasn't sure but it looked like two more remained outside. The three held pistols sideways across their chest, over navy blue uniforms emblazoned with the insignia of the DHS. Each had the requisite badges.
“Ryan, you're coming with us,” the first man announced. Ryan recognized him as the voice that had called through the door.
Across the street, lights flooded his neighbors' windows.
“There must be a mistake.” His wife stepped toward Ryan. She didn't wail. She wouldn't wail. Ryan was proud.
“Ma'am, stay back.” The second man re-aimed his pistol at her chest. “I asked you politely, ma'am.”
“The hell you did!” she snarled, still advancing.
“You have no right!” Ryan was livid. He turned his son to his side, shielding him with his body. His hands shook uncontrollably.
“We are permitted by the Patriot Act,” the first man said decisively, holding a DHS badge to Ryan's face that identified him as John Dobson. Dobson was clearly in charge.
His wife grabbed the badge from the man's hand. He raised his arm as if to strike her.
Ryan's blood ran cold. He thrust forward, his hands reaching for the man's throat, tearing away from the grip of his son.
“Dad! Don't leave me!”
Ryan stopped cold as a shot rang out, the bullet tearing through the ceiling. The second man had pulled the trigger while the third now leveled his weapon at Ryan. A fourth man appeared at the broken door frame, his gun pointed at ready. Plaster dust rained down and there was a smell of burnt gunpowder and seared wood.
Ryan's son had fallen to the floor and hit his chin. It was bleeding.
“My daughter is upstairs!” Ryan's wife hid her terror but her voice was high-pitched and strained. “My son is hurt!”
“I suggest you don't resist.”
At the top of the stairs, a little girl sobbed. Ryan glanced up sharply and shook with relief. His knees buckled and he stepped back, feeling the terrified embrace of his son around his back. Ryan reached down and pulled his son close whereupon the boy buried his face into his dad's side. Blood seeped onto Ryan's untucked shirt tail.
“Thank God!” his wife's voice broke. She turned...
“STAY WHERE YOU ARE, MA'AM!” The second man shouted and she stopped cold.
“That's my daughter!” She minced her words with a feisty rage.
“Let her come down herself.” The shooter was visibly shaken but he would not forfeit control.
“Mommy, I'm scared,” the little girl said plaintively. “There was a loud noise and it woke me up.” She clutched a tattered blanket in one hand and the banister rail with the other.
“Let me go to her!” Ryan's wife demanded, again turning toward the stairs. The agent thrust out and grabbed her shoulder, twisting her back around, nearly pulling her off her feet. Ryan started again but the pistol was shoved into his stomach and he stopped. His son's bleeding chin bounced against his side and Ryan heard him whimper.
“Mommy!” both of his children shrieked. Ryan felt his son's grip on him freeze.
“STAND DOWN!” Dobson ordered—to everyone. He turned toward his agent. “Let her go.”
“Get your hands off me!” Ryan's wife snapped. She twisted away, striding furiously toward the crying little girl.
Dobson pressed something else at Ryan. It was a badge. “Check the badge, Ryan,” he insisted.
While Ryan looked, he dropped a hand onto his trembling son's shoulder and held him to his side. The badge was authentic, as best as he could tell. With his free hand, he pushed it away. “Get that out of my face! Why are you here?” His son stiffened again. I'm frightening him, Ryan realized.
“We just want to talk to you.”
“Really.” Ryan sneered. “In the middle of the night? Like this?” He stayed still as he spoke.
“Just following my orders, Sir.”
“Your orders are to shoot first?” Ryan was incredulous.
“You could've...hit...my sister.” His son spoke in staccato sobs. “You...could've...killed...her!”
“Are you continuing to resist?” Dobson ignored the young boy's accusation.
“I have broken no laws.” Ryan was resolute. “There will be hell to pay,” he promised.
“Yes there will,” the second man sneered. “You have violated the Official Secrets Act.”
Finally
Ryan had a clue. “What I was discussed was not classified,” Ryan leveled. His anger surged.
“Yes, it was.” The man disagreed. “It had been classified that morning.”
Ryan stopped arguing. Pawluk would not have steered him wrong. He was caught in a territorial dispute and these agents were too low in the totem to make decisions.
His wife descended the stairs slowly, still under watch of the second man. She held her daughter to her chest. The little girl's arms were tightly wrapped around her mom's neck. “Careful, honey,” she said softly but firmly. “I can't breathe.”
Ryan turned slowly, picked up his son and embraced him. “I'll be home soon,” he promised. Then he reached out with his free arm and pulled in his wife and daughter.
“Contact our lawyer first and then my old boss, Pawluk,” he said.
She understood and held him closely, refusing to let go. “You have blood on your shirt.”
“Time to go,” Dobson announced.
Reluctantly, his wife let him go but his daughter spun and fell into his arms.
“Daddy!” She cried out.
“I need to go, love,” Ryan said softly. He hugged her for a full minute, letting his son slide down his side to the floor where the boy held still, bear-hugging his waist, his head still buried into his side. The boy's chin was no longer bleeding but his cheeks were smeared in red—as was Ryan's shirt.
“Now, Ryan,” Dobson insisted.
Ryan handed his daughter to his wife. She nearly had to tear the girl's arms away from his neck. He reached down and pressed himself into his son.
“Soon,” he said. His wife pulled his son to her.
They cuffed him and led him outside. Behind him, he heard his son sniffling and his daughter hiccup her tears. “Will we ever see Dad again?” his son asked in a small voice.
“Of course.” His wife stood at their side, resolute,