Stratham, New Hampshire

What the Hell? The noise that woke Sophie Tanner was loud and violent, coming from the room below her sun-filled bedroom. It sounded like a physical struggle, grunting, movement, and smashing. She heard two thuds, followed by a brief silence.

She immediately shrugged off the haziness of last night's good time with her high school friends at McMullin's Tavern as her feet hit the floor. 

She listened through the bedroom door, careful to stay quiet. Now, doors were slamming, and things were hitting the floor. This can't be her Father? It sounded like trouble.

She pulled her door open. The five-foot journey across the hall to her parent's bedroom felt like five miles, but she was quick and silent.

She felt around inside the drawer of her Father's nightstand, wrapping her hand around the grip of a cold and heavy semi-automatic pistol. Sophie placed it under a pillow and slid the safety button back.

The noise from downstairs continued. Sophie took a second to recall what her Father had taught her about this gun. What she was about to do would be loud enough for someone downstairs to hear.

The noise of the pistol's slide was as jolting as a car alarm, and it took balance and strength. She did it in one smooth, loud motion, like ripping off a hairy band-aid. Then she listened. The noises continued.

Sophie inched toward the top of the stairs and stopped. The noise continued, but now with small pauses. Was she heard, she wondered? The smell of gunpowder was in the air, yet Sophie heard no shots. What the hell is going on? she thought.

Everything felt like slow motion while going down the carpeted steps individually.   She summoned composure, consciously trying to control her breathing and increase her focus. She had learned this when she was the goalie for her high school soccer team when an opposing player was coming at the net.

She tried to remember what her Father had taught her about shooting when she was twelve. "Only aim a gun at a person if you are in a situation when they could hurt or kill you." He told her this every time they went shooting on the pistol range.

When she was four steps from the landing, she sat, aimed forward, and listened.

Whoever was tearing the place up had to come by this stairway when they left. There was no other way out. She held the pistol facing forward and relaxed her breathing.

She heard a man's voice speaking a language she did not know. It was a one-way, harsh conversation. It was not her Father's voice. 

At that realization, Sophie trembled and teared up. And then she pulled herself together again.

She heard the doorknob turn from her Father's study.

Almost immediately after the sound of the door opening, a man stepped in front of the stairs, where Sophie was perched.

He was tall with an earpiece microphone and held a large pistol with a silencer. He was holding her Father's computer—the one with the Beatles sticker.

He saw her, and in an automatic trained motion, he turned and aimed at Sophie. He smiled at the young girl while thinking about his mistake. Not knowing someone else was in the house was the kind of error a new operator makes, not him. It was not like him to miss anything. This error is fixable, Andrei thought.