Chapter 9 - The Catacombs of the Fallen
Julian fell to his knees again, clawing at his hair in total hysteria.
“We're going to die! We're trapped in a metal tomb!” Julian wailed.
“Shut up!” Ethan roared, grabbing Julian by his tie and slamming him back against the wall.
“One more sound out of you, and I will open that door and throw you to your friends right now.”
Julian clamped his mouth shut, tears running silently down his face.
Ethan turned to the far corner of the vault, where an antique bronze ventilation register was mounted into the concrete foundation.
He knelt down, jammed his knife blade behind the decorative bronze grille, and wrenched it open.
Behind the grille lay a narrow, circular opening descending straight down into the blackness of the earth.
A rusted iron rung ladder vanished into the abyss.
“The Prohibition shaft,” Margaret said softly, watching the dust swirl inside the dark tunnel.
“My grandfather used it to move illicit crates of Canadian whiskey from the underground river docks during the 1920s.”
“Does it lead off the estate?” Julia asked, peering down into the damp, echoing darkness.
“It leads directly to the boathouse at the edge of the northern bluff,” Ethan explained, slinging the assault rifle over his back.
“Half a mile underground, beneath the perimeter security sensors.”
“If we move fast, we can reach the armored speedboats before Petrov’s teams realize we've slipped under their perimeter.”
A violent explosion rocked the vault door above them.
The top hinge blew outward with a deafening bang, showering the room with white-hot metal sparks.
The heavy steel door groaned, sagging outward at a dangerous twenty-degree angle.
Thick, acrid black smoke began pouring through the widening gap.
“Go! Down the shaft now!” Ethan ordered.
Margaret looked at Julia.
“You first, child,” Margaret commanded gently.
“Your wrist is injured; I want you below me so I can see you.”
Julia didn't hesitate.
She holstered the ceramic revolver inside her apron pocket, climbed through the opening, and found the cold iron rungs with her sneakers.
Pain shot through her sprained right wrist with every downward step, but she bit her lip until it bled, forcing herself downward into the freezing air.
Margaret followed with surprising agility, her survival instincts kicking in after decades of ruthless mob rule.
Julian scrambled down next, his dress shoes slipping violently against the rusted iron rungs.
Ethan waited until the last possible second.
He dragged the unconscious Marcus Finch across the floor, dumped him directly beneath the sagging vault door, and pulled a fragmentation grenade from the fallen mercenary’s vest.
Ethan wedged the grenade under Finch’s collar, tied the pin to the interior door handle with a strip of linen, and dropped into the tunnel shaft.
He reached up, grabbed the heavy iron hatch from below, and slammed it shut just as the vault door collapsed under the weight of the Petrov breaching team.
A concussive detonation echoed through the steel shaft above them.
The shockwave vibrated down the iron ladder, showering them with ancient rust and crumbling mortar.
The screaming of mercenaries caught in the secondary blast was muffled by thirty feet of solid rock.
Julia hit the dirt floor of the underground tunnel, stumbling onto her knees in several inches of freezing, stagnant water.
The air smelled of wet limestone, decaying wood, and river silt.
Ethan dropped down beside her, clicking on his tactical flashlight.
The narrow subterranean passage stretched out into the distance, framed by rotting wooden beams and arched red bricks.
“Keep moving,” Ethan whispered, taking Margaret’s arm to support her weight.
“The blast bought us five minutes at most.”
They hurried through the freezing sludge, their heavy breathing echoing off the low brick ceiling.
Julia’s body was shaking uncontrollably from cold and physical shock.
Her soaked servant uniform clung to her skin like ice, and her right forearm had swelled to nearly twice its normal size beneath the elastic bandage.
Margaret noticed the younger woman’s condition.
The matriarch reached out with her free hand and caught Julia’s sleeve.
“You hold your head high, Julia Carter,” Margaret murmured as they trudged through the subterranean darkness.
“Tonight, you are the only person in this family who hasn't betrayed their honor.”
“I just wanted to pay off my mother's hospital bills, ma'am,” Julia whispered through shivering teeth.
“You will never worry about a hospital bill again,” Margaret swore softly.
“If we see tomorrow's sun, I will ensure you never have to work for anyone else for the rest of your life.”
Ahead of them, the tunnel began to slope upward.
The sound of rushing river water grew louder, accompanied by the faint, rhythmic lapping of waves against wooden pilings.
A faint breeze carrying the scent of pine needles and open water swept through the tunnel.
“We're approaching the boathouse basin,” Ethan said, raising his rifle and moving ahead of the group.
The tunnel terminated at a heavy, waterlogged oak door bound with rusted iron straps.
Ethan approached cautiously, his weapon raised, his eyes scanning every shadow.
He pressed his ear against the wood, listening intently for any sound from the boathouse above.
Nothing but the gentle creak of wooden docks and the wind rustling through the pines.
Ethan carefully pushed the heavy oak door open.
It swung outward without a sound, opening into the cavernous interior of the Kane family boathouse.
Two high-performance black speedboats were docked in the deep water slips, their fiberglass hulls gleaming in the faint moonlight filtering through the high clerestory windows.
“Clear,” Ethan whispered, waving them through.
Julia helped Margaret up the slick wooden steps onto the main boarding platform.
Julian dropped to his knees on the wooden planks, gasping for breath and laughing hysterically.
“We made it! My God, we actually made it!” Julian cried.
“Be quiet, you fool,” Ethan hissed, sweeping his flashlight across the shadows.
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the elevated control deck overlooking the boat slips.
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The overhead industrial floodlights snapped on with a blinding flash, illuminating the entire boathouse in glaring white light.
Standing on the wooden platform above them, holding a high-caliber hunting rifle pointed directly at Margaret’s chest, stood Eleanor Kane.
