The attack was swift.

Glass exploded inward from the living room window, shards glittering like deadly confetti as they scattered across the hardwood floor. Before I could even register what was happening, Ryder had moved to the kitchen island and yanked open a drawer I'd never noticed before.

The gun in his hand looked natural, like it belonged there. His grip was steady, professional, nothing like the college quarterback I thought I knew.

"Get down," he commanded, his voice stripped of all ...