Chapter 6 - THE RAT IN THE ENGINE
The mechanical grind of the concrete trapdoor closing echoed from above.
The hydraulic seal hissed shut.
We were trapped forty feet beneath the earth.
“He has the access code to the primary override,” Damian said.
His voice didn't rise.
He drew his weapon, checking the suppressor on the barrel.
“Luca, what’s on the camera?”
Luca tapped the control panel.
“Twelve hostiles, boss. Heavy vests. They’re setting thermal breaching charges on the slab.”
On the grainy monitor, Marcus was pointing toward the floor.
Two men in body armor knelt, attaching blocks of gray plastic explosive to the seams of the concrete slab.
“Five minutes before they blow the hatch,” Luca said.
“They won't blow it,” I said suddenly.
Both men turned to look at me.
“What?” Damian asked.
“My father built this room,” I said, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I pointed to the exposed steel I-beams running across the ceiling.
“These beams are tied directly to the building’s structural foundation. If they detonate five pounds of C4 on that slab, the entire four-story brick garage collapses on top of them.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed.
“Marcus doesn't know that.”
“Marcus has never held a wrench in his life,” I said with cold certainty.
“He doesn't know load points.”
“Can we trigger the fire suppression system from down here?” Damian asked.
I scanned the wall panel.
Beside the air intake controls was an emergency industrial lever painted bright yellow:
HALON GAS FLOOD — ENGINE TEST CELL.
“The old dynamometer bay above us,” I realized.
“Dad had a high-pressure Halon system installed to smother engine fires.”
“Halon displaces oxygen in four seconds,” Damian said.
He looked at Luca.
“Get your rebreathers on.”
Damian pulled two compact tactical respirators from his tactical bag.
He handed one to me.
“Bite down on the mouthpiece,” he ordered.
“Breathe through your teeth.”
I fitted the rubber mask over my nose and mouth.
The air tasted like cold rubber and charcoal.
Damian adjusted the straps behind my head, his fingers brushing against my hair.
His touch was completely steady.
“Ready, Elena?” he asked.
I reached out and grabbed the yellow lever.
I threw my entire weight against it.
The iron handle slammed downward with a heavy, industrial thud.
High-pressure pneumatic valves shrieked through the pipes.
On the monitor above, thick white chemical fog erupted from eight ceiling nozzles in the garage.
The heavy gas flooded the floor like a tidal wave.
Marcus’s mercenaries immediately dropped their breaching charges.
Men clutched their throats, stumbling blindly through the blinding white fog.
Rifles clattered onto the concrete.
“Move,” Damian commanded.
He tapped a secondary hydraulic release on the workbench.
A narrow escape hatch opened in the back corner of the bunker—a steel tube leading into the city sewer main.
We climbed through the damp, narrow pipe.
The smell of sewage and stagnant water was overwhelming.
We emerged fifty yards down the alley through a storm grate behind an empty warehouse.
Cold rain washed the chemical dust from our clothes.
Down the block, the side doors of the garage burst open.
Marcus stumbled into the rainy street, coughing violently, vomiting onto the cobblestones.
He dropped his gun.
He looked up into the darkness of the alley.
Damian stepped out from the shadows.
He didn't fire his weapon.
He closed the distance in four long, terrifying strides.
Marcus looked up, horror twisting his features.
“Wait! Damian, wait—”
Damian’s right fist struck Marcus’s jaw with the force of an oncoming train.
The sound of shattering bone was crisp and sickening.
Marcus flew backward, crashing into the brick wall of the warehouse.
He slid down into the wet garbage, unconscious, blood pooling in his mouth.
Damian stood over him, breathing evenly through his nose.
He reached down and pulled Marcus’s encrypted phone from his jacket pocket.
He looked at the screen.
A text message was displayed from Rowan Ashcroft sent two minutes ago:
FINISH THEM. THE CORSETTI SYNDICATE IS TAKING THE HARBOR AT DAWN.
Damian looked at me through the pouring rain.
The cold anger in his gray eyes was absolute.
“Your uncle didn't just steal your father’s company, Elena.”
Damian crushed Marcus’s phone beneath the heel of his leather boot.
“He sold the entire waterfront to the Corsetti family.”
May you like
“The men who killed your father,” I said, remembering his story on the boat.
“The men who killed both our fathers,” Damian corrected.
