Chapter 8 - The Black Water of the Catacombs
The drop into the tidal sluice was like stepping into an open freezer.
The icy water hit Rosa’s thighs with shocking violence, the current tugging aggressively at her clothes as her bare feet sank into the thick silt of the tunnel floor.
She held Lily high above her chest, the toddler waking with a frightened gasp as the frigid air slapped her cheeks.
“Shh, baby,” Rosa whispered through chattering teeth, pressing her cheek against the girl’s warm forehead.
“Mama has you.”
“Don't look down, just look at the light.”
Above them, Caleb dropped into the water with a heavy splash, his six-foot-two frame absorbing the impact without a grunt.
He instantly grabbed the rusted iron ladder attached to the shaft wall and pulled the circular iron cover shut, throwing the internal slide bolt to lock it from below.
Three seconds later, a muffled, thunderous roar echoed from the nursery above.
The exothermic charge had finally breached the blast door.
A spray of orange sparks shot through the hairline gaps in the drainage plate above their heads, followed by the distant, frantic shouting of Nolan’s mercenaries searching the empty panic room.
“They will figure out the drainage line in two minutes,” Caleb whispered, his voice cutting through the hollow roar of the current.
He drew a compact waterproof tactical flashlight from his utility belt, clicking it on to reveal a narrow, brick-lined aqueduct curving away into the subterranean darkness.
The arched ceiling was barely five feet high, slick with black mold and dripping with condensation.
“Keep your head down,” Caleb commanded, taking the lead and wading through the waist-deep water.
“The current gets stronger as we approach the tidal gate.”
“Step where I step.”
“The bricks on the canal bed are loose.”
They moved forward through the black water, their muscles burning from the paralyzing cold.
Lily began to whimper, trembling violently inside the damp wool blanket, her little hands clutching Rosa’s wet hair.
“Cold, Mama,” Lily cried softly.
“Too cold.”
Rosa gritted her teeth, ignoring the numbness creeping up from her ankles into her hip joints.
“I know, sweetie,” Rosa murmured, her breath coming in ragged white clouds.
“We are almost to the boat.”
“Think about the warm milk.”
“Think about the sunshine.”
Ahead of them, Caleb moved with mechanical, unrelenting determination despite the severe laceration on his left arm.
The cold salt water had seeped into his bandage, stinging the open wound, yet he did not slow his pace by a single fraction of a second.
He kept his tactical sidearm raised in his right hand, the beam of his flashlight sweeping the murky water ahead for obstructions.
Suddenly, Caleb froze.
He raised his left hand, signaling an immediate halt.
Rosa stopped, bracing her bare feet against the slippery brick floor, her heart leaping into her throat.
Fifty yards ahead, where the brick aqueduct intersected with the main drainage cistern of the estate, two narrow beams of halogen light were dancing across the water’s surface.
A metallic click echoed through the arched chamber.
It was the distinct sound of a bolt chambering a round into a submachine gun.
“Creed said check the culverts!” a rough voice echoed from the cistern.
“If they went into the water, they won't make it past the intake grates!”
Rosa held her breath, pressing Lily’s face into her collarbone to stifle any sound.
There were two mercenaries standing on the concrete inspection walkway spanning the cistern.
Between Rosa and the walkway was forty yards of open, waist-deep water with zero cover.
If Caleb fired, the muzzle flash and the acoustics of the brick tunnel would turn the culvert into a kill box.
Caleb slowly lowered himself deeper into the water until only his nose, eyes, and raised pistol were above the surface.
He glanced back at Rosa.
In the faint backscatter of his tactical light, he saw the fierce, unyielding intelligence in her eyes.
Rosa looked at the wall beside her.
A cluster of heavy, rusted cast-iron overflow valves protruded from the brickwork, connected to an antique pneumatic pressure tank.
A thick lever, painted with faded red industrial lead, hung at chest height.
Above the lever was a rusted brass plaque: EMERGENCY WEIR RELEASE — CAUTION HIGH VELOCITY.
Rosa caught Caleb’s eye and pointed at the lever.
Caleb’s eyes widened slightly in immediate tactical comprehension.
The weir release was designed to flush sixty thousand gallons of stored storm water through the lower culvert to clear tidal silt.
He gave her a single, resolute nod.
Caleb waded three steps backward, positioning himself directly behind Rosa and wrapping his massive arms around both her and Lily, anchoring their bodies against the heavy iron housing of the valve pipe.
“Take a deep breath and hold the child tight,” he whispered into her ear.
Rosa reached out with her right hand, gripped the cold, slime-covered iron lever, and threw her entire body weight downward.
The rusted steel screeched in protest, metal grinding against metal.
Then, with a deafening hydraulic bang that shook the brick foundation, the three-foot intake valve at the rear of the tunnel slammed open.
A wall of freezing, foaming storm water—thousands of gallons of pent-up river runoff—surged through the aqueduct like a runaway freight train.
The tidal wave hit Caleb’s back with crushing force, but his locked grip around Rosa and the iron pipe held them anchored against the wall.
The two mercenaries on the inspection catwalk never even had time to scream.
The massive surge of black water exploded into the cistern, tearing the rusted aluminum catwalk off its concrete moorings like paper.
Both men were swept off their feet, their weapons ripped from their hands, tumbled violently into the churning foam and flushed down the secondary sluice toward the deep bay channel.
The roar of the flood subsided into a steady, knee-deep rush of receding water.
The cistern ahead was clear.
The path to the coastal estuary was open.
Caleb released his grip, coughing out a mouthful of brackish water, his face pale but completely composed.
He looked down at Rosa, who was gasping for air, her smock drenched, yet Lily was held completely above the high-water mark, dry from the waist up.
“You’re terrifying, Rosa Bell,” Caleb murmured, a ghost of a genuine, dark smile touching his lips.
Rosa wiped the foul water from her eyes, her teeth chattering so hard she could barely articulate the words.
“My mother… didn't raise… a victim, Mr. Bass.”
“Come on,” Caleb said, taking Lily from her arms to lighten her load as they scrambled up the broken concrete steps of the cistern.
“The boathouse is fifty yards past the tree line.”
They climbed through the ruptured steel grating of the storm outlet, emerging onto the rocky, pebble-strewn shore of the coastal inlet.
The sky in the east was beginning to turn from midnight black to a deep, bruised purple.
May you like
Dawn was coming.
And with it, the countdown to the destruction of everything they owned.
