Chapter 9 - THE ROOT CELLAR
The heavy iron trapdoor slammed shut above Claire’s head.
Vance threw the internal slide bolt.
CLUNK.
The subterranean cellar plunged into damp, dim darkness, lit only by the green battery glow of Vance’s tactical radio.
The walls were rough-cut granite, weeping cold mountain runoff.
The air smelled of dirt, dry potatoes, and hundred-year-old stone.
Above their heads, the battle began.
BOOM.
The shotgun roared like rolling thunder inside the cabin.
Screams.
The rapid clatter of automatic weapons.
Glass shattering.
Boot steps running across the floorboards directly over them.
Claire pressed her back against the cold granite wall.
She slid down to the dirt floor, her knees pulled to her chest, her hands wrapped tightly around her stomach.
Kick.
A sharp, firm flutter against her ribs.
“Shh, baby,” Claire whispered into the dark, tears slipping silently down her face.
“Your father is up there.”
“He’s fighting for us.”
Director Vance sat against the wooden shelving, pressing a white gauze pad against a bullet graze on his shoulder.
He pulled his encrypted radio to his lips.
“All regional units, this is Director Vance!”
“Officer under fire at Adirondack Sector Nine!”
“Authorize immediate air support from Fort Drum!”
The radio crackled with static.
Then, a smooth, mocking voice answered through the speaker:
“Save your breath, cousin.”
Silas Vance.
“Fort Drum’s radar grid was jammed fifteen minutes ago by private electronic warfare drones.”
“You’re on your own in those woods, Arthur.”
“And Nathan Brooks has already wired twenty million to my account.”
The radio cut out.
Vance cursed, slamming the radio against the dirt floor.
Above them, the gunfire became chaotic.
A body crashed into the floorboards directly over the pantry hatch, shaking dust down into Claire’s hair.
A wet gurgle followed.
Then, the distinctive, heavy crack-crack-crack of Gabriel’s Sig Sauer.
Three shots.
Three impacts.
Silence fell over the cabin.
The crackle of burning pine logs was the only sound filtering through the ceiling.
Claire held her breath.
Her heart struck her ribs like a hammer.
Footsteps approached the pantry.
Slow.
Heavy.
Boot soles crunching on shattered glass.
The handle of the iron trapdoor rattled.
Someone was trying to pull it open from above.
Vance raised his service weapon, aiming directly at the center of the iron hatch.
“Gabriel?” Vance called out, his voice hoarse with smoke.
No answer.
The trapdoor rattled again.
Then came a voice that made Claire’s blood turn to ice water.
Nathan.
“Claire?”
“Are you down there, darling?”
The voice was muffled through the iron, but the oily, condescending tone was unmistakable.
“Gabriel is dead, Claire.”
“He took three rounds on the porch.”
“He bled out in the snow.”
Claire’s breath hitched in her throat.
A wave of pure, suffocating grief struck her chest like an iron bar.
No.
Not Gabriel.
“Open the hatch, Claire,” Nathan coaxed through the metal.
“Give me the warehouse codes.”
“I’ll let Vance walk away.”
“I’ll take care of you and the baby.”
“Just like old times.”
Director Vance kept his gun aimed at the hatch, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Claire slowly pushed herself up from the dirt floor.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks.
She looked at the ceiling.
“Nathan?” she called out, her voice trembling with manufactured weakness.
“Yes, sweetheart! I’m here!”
“You promised you would let the director walk?”
“On my honor, Claire!” Nathan lied smoothly.
“I only want the family debt cleared!”
Claire stepped beneath the hatch.
She looked at Director Vance.
She signaled with two fingers toward the hinges of the trapdoor.
Vance understood immediately.
“I’m opening the bolt, Nathan,” Claire said.
She reached up and grabbed the heavy iron slide bolt.
She pulled it back.
The latch clicked.
The iron trapdoor was yanked open from above.
Nathan Brooks stood looking down into the root cellar, a tactical flashlight in his left hand, an expensive silver revolver in his right.
His designer coat was smudged with soot, his hair disheveled, but a triumphant, greedy grin spread across his face.
“There you are, my clever little—"
Nathan never finished the sentence.
From the shadows behind Nathan’s shoulder, a bloody, iron-strong hand reached out.
Gabriel DeLuca appeared like an avenging specter from the smoke.
His face was streaked with soot and blood.
His suit jacket was shredded.
His dark eyes burned with the fury of a demon dragged from the grave.
May you like
Gabriel’s fingers closed around Nathan’s throat.
With one effortless, terrifying heave, Gabriel lifted the two-hundred-pound banker clean off his feet and hurled him through the kitchen wall into the burning living room.
