Chapter 8 - THE TRAITOR AT THE TABLE
The voice echoed down the wooden staircase like poisoned water dripping into an empty bucket.
Declan stepped instantly in front of Norah.
He shoved her behind the iron frame of the coal furnace.
"Stay down," he commanded under his breath.
"Jonathan," Declan said aloud, his voice steady as a tombstone.
"What are you doing in Bridgeport?"
Footsteps descended the wooden stairs.
The wood groaned beneath heavy leather dress shoes.
Jonathan Hayes appeared at the bottom of the steps.
He wore an Italian wool overcoat and a cashmere scarf, impeccably groomed despite the four-in-the-morning hour.
In his right hand, he held a sleek Beretta with a carbon-fiber suppressor.
Behind him came four private security contractors in black tactical gear, their submachine guns aimed at Declan's chest.
"I came to clean up family business, little brother," Jonathan said.
He smiled, but his eyes were empty.
"Liam is outside," Declan said coldly.
"Liam was taken care of ten minutes ago," Jonathan replied casually.
"A flashbang through the driver's window."
"He's handcuffed to the steering wheel."
Declan did not lower his weapon.
"You're working with Marcus Vance."
Jonathan let out a soft, mocking sigh.
"Working with him?"
"I built the partnership, Declan."
"Father was an old fool who believed in honor and legacy."
"He wanted us to run legitimate logistics while Marcus Vance made fifty million a year moving unregistered freight."
"When Father refused to sign the Terminal Four lease ten years ago, someone had to show business sense."
Declan’s eyes narrowed into slits of ice.
"You killed Father."
The accusation hung in the freezing cellar air.
Jonathan didn't flinch.
He didn't look away.
"Father had a weak heart," Jonathan said smoothly.
"His digitalis prescription was simply... adjusted."
"A little extra in his evening tea for three weeks."
"The coroner called it natural cardiac arrest."
Behind the furnace, Norah gasped.
The sound was tiny, but Jonathan’s eyes flickered toward the shadow of the iron coal chute.
"Come out, Miss Jenkins," Jonathan said.
"Bring the binders with you."
"Don't move, Norah," Declan ordered, his Sig Sauer leveled at Jonathan’s forehead.
Jonathan chuckled.
"Declan, look at the room."
"You have eight rounds in that Sig."
"My men have eighty rounds of armor-piercing nine-millimeter."
"If you fire one shot, Miss Jenkins will be shredded before she can scream."
Declan felt his pulse spike in his throat.
His mind calculated the trajectories.
Four shooters.
Narrow corridor.
Concrete walls that would ricochet every missed bullet into the corner where Norah knelt.
"What do you want, Jonathan?"
"I want the carbon copies," Jonathan said.
"And I want your resignation from the board of Hayes Maritime."
"Sign the corporate handover papers I have in my car."
"Take your savings."
"Leave Chicago by sunrise."
"And the girl?" Declan asked.
Jonathan tilted his head.
"Miss Jenkins knows too much."
"She’s an administrative casualty."
"Her sister is already in your penthouse."
"A tragic gas leak will take care of both of them tomorrow afternoon."
Declan’s finger tightened on the trigger.
"You won't touch her."
"I hold all the cards, Declan," Jonathan said, taking half a step forward.
Suddenly, a heavy iron clatter shattered the standoff.
From behind the furnace, Norah lunged forward.
She didn't run.
She grabbed the heavy iron coal shovel resting against the brick wall.
With all the strength in her slender body, she swung the steel shovel directly into the emergency gas shutoff valve mounted on the main basement line.
The copper pipe ruptured with a deafening CRACK.
Pressurized natural gas screamed into the cellar with the roar of an erupting geyser.
The smell of rotten eggs filled the air in half a second.
"Gas!" one of Jonathan’s contractors screamed, instinctively lowering his weapon.
"DON'T FIRE!" Jonathan bellowed in sheer panic.
"ONE SPARK WILL BLOW THE ENTIRE HOUSE TO HELL!"
Declan moved.
In the moment of chaos, he lunged across the four feet separating him from Jonathan.
He struck Jonathan’s wrist with his left forearm, sending the suppressed Beretta skittering across the concrete floor.
Declan drove his right elbow into Jonathan’s jaw.
Bone cracked.
Jonathan flew backward into the nearest contractor, knocking both men into the wooden staircase.
"Norah! The coal chute!" Declan roared through the hissing cloud of gas.
Norah grabbed the three binders.
She scrambled toward the iron coal delivery chute at the front foundation wall.
The iron latch was rusted, but Declan reached it in two strides.
He slammed his shoulder into the heavy iron plate.
The external coal chute burst open into the freezing street air.
"Climb!" Declan ordered.
Norah shoved the binders through the opening into the snow.
She grabbed the rim of the chute.
Declan seized her by the waist and hoisted her upward with both arms.
She scrambled out onto the muddy grass of the front yard.
Behind Declan, Jonathan was struggling to his feet, blood pouring from his split lip.
"Kill him! Use the knives!" Jonathan shrieked.
Two contractors drew tactical blades, lunging through the gas-filled dark.
Declan grabbed the edge of the coal chute frame.
He swung his legs up through the opening just as a steel blade sliced through the heel of his boot.
He hauled himself out into the freezing sleet.
He slammed the heavy iron chute shut behind him.
Norah was on her knees in the slush, clutching the three binders to her chest.
"Declan!" she gasped.
Declan grabbed her hand.
"Run!"
They sprinted across the front lawn toward the alley.
Behind them, inside the brick house, someone panicked.
A muzzle flash illuminated the basement window.
BOOM!
The gas pocket ignited.
The cellar windows blew outward in a hurricane of orange flame, shattered glass, and black smoke.
The shockwave threw Declan and Norah forward into the muddy grass.
Debris rained down on the asphalt.
The roof of the Bridgeport bungalow collapsed inward with a terrifying groan of splintering timber.
Declan rolled over, throwing his body across Norah to protect her from falling brick.
May you like
The heat of the explosion washed over his back.
Sirens in the distance immediately began to wail through the Chicago night.
