Excerpt from One Kick by Chelsea Cain, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The redheaded agent cleared his throat. "I've got a warrant to search your property," he said to her father.

Her father didn't respond. His hunched frame quivered.

"How many people are in the house?" the agent demanded.

She willed her father to look up, to give her some instruction, but his eyes were darting around so fast, it was like his focus couldn't alight on anything long enough.

One of the other agents lifted her father roughly to his feet and handcuffed his hands behind his back. "You better start talking, Mel," he said to her father. "You know what they do to people like you in prison." He grinned when he said it, like it was something worth looking forward to.

"Not in front of the girl," the redheaded agent said.

Tiny dots of red and black peppered the floor, beads from her father's moccasins. Her skin felt like it was shimmering, like she was flickering on and off, a dying lightbulb.

Another man was leading her father toward the kitchen. "Let's find someplace to talk," he said, giving her father a shove.

She tried to speak, to call out to her father, but her body couldn't remember how to make words. He was shuffling away from her, moccasins scuffing against the floor, beads trailing him.

"Find the wife," someone said.

Mother. The word stuck in her throat. She couldn't choke it up. Inside her head, she was screaming, but outside, she was motionless, feet rooted to the floor. She watched as the three other men with guns followed his instructions, moving into the house with the guns raised.

The redheaded agent was talking into a walkie-talkie. "We're on the scene," he said. "Things went down early. Still waiting for backup." He stole another worried glance at her and mopped his brow with a freckled hand. "We've got a kid here," he added.

She made herself swallow. Mr. Johnson cowered just inside the door, eyeing her warily, still in his socks. Her parents had been careful about letting the neighbors see her. If a neighbor stopped by for some reason, she hid. Strangers were never allowed in the house. She pressed the back of her skull into the wall behind her, listening for her father's voice. But the noise of the storm and the static from the walkie-talkie drowned everything out. The harder she listened, the more she couldn't tell one noise from the other. She wondered if her mother had made it out the back door.

The redheaded agent's gun was holstered under his shoulder. He bent his knees and lowered himself to her height. "I'm a police officer," he said. "But you can call me Frank."

Her father was right. Adults lied. "You're an FBI agent," she corrected him.

His eyes flickered with surprise. "O-kay," he said. "You know something about law enforcement. That's good. Good. You can help me." He looked her in the eye. "I need you to tell me your name."

"I told you there was a kid here," Mr. Johnson said.

This was all because of her. He'd seen her. The back of her head hurt. She missed her parents. She moved her hand out of the quilt and up the leg of the hallway cabinet next to her.

The agent named Frank reached out like he wanted to put his hand on her shoulder, but dragged it through his wet hair instead. "Are there any other kids here?" he asked.

She wasn't supposed to answer questions like that. He was trying to trick her, to get her in trouble.

"You're safe now," Frank said.

She found the metal drawer pull with her fingers. Top left.

Then she let the quilt drop. Both Frank's and Mr. Johnson's eyes followed it as it puddled to the floor. The gun was in her hands by the time they looked up.

"Holy hell," she heard Mr. Johnson say.

She planted her feet apart the way her father had taught her and aimed the gun at Frank.

There was a stillness to him, but he didn't look afraid.

Excerpted from One Kick by Chelsea Cain. Copyright © 2014 by Chelsea Cain. Excerpted by permission of Simon & Schuster. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.