The smashed phone sits in the comms room like a plastic tombstone, but we didn't stay to mourn it. We retreated. We turned the master suite into a fortress.
The heavy oak dresser is back against the door, wedged tight against the scarred wood where the number three is carved.
Stavros has positioned himself by the window, peering through the slats of the shutters, his gun a permanent extension of his hand.
It’s been hours. Silence hangs heavy over the villa. No footsteps. No gunshots. Just the psychological torture of knowing they are here, breathing our air, waiting for us to make a mistake.
"They're waiting for dawn," Stavros says, his voice rough. "They want visual confirmation before they breach."
"We have three magazines," I whisper, sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching a s
