Chapter 8 - The Half-Truth of Highway 9
The coal conduit was narrow, slick with decades of black dust, and pitched downward at a steep thirty-degree incline.
Marcus Vance led the way with his small tactical light, his breath wheezing through his lungs in painful, rhythmic gasps.
Ella held Leo’s small hand firmly behind her, guiding the boy’s feet over the damp, uneven brickwork of the ancient chute.
Behind them, through thirty yards of solid limestone, the suppressed chatter of submachine gun fire erupted into the silence.
The sound did not come in wild bursts; it came in controlled, rhythmic pairs.
Pop-pop. Pop-pop.
Dante was holding the vault door.
Every gunshot sent a cold shudder down Ella’s spine, but she kept moving, forcing her rubber soles to grip the slimy surface.
Leo didn’t cry.
The little boy moved with mechanical silence, his other hand clutching the strap of Ella’s Kevlar vest like a lifeline.
“How much farther, Marcus?” Ella whispered into the black tunnel.
“Fifty yards to the storm gate,” Vance gasped, wiping black soot from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“The drainage conduit empties directly into the lower ravine behind the boathouse.”
“Does Cole know about this exit?”
“Cole has the architectural blueprints from nineteen-ninety-five,” Vance answered without looking back.
“This conduit was dug during Prohibition in nineteen-twenty-six to unload Canadian whiskey from the river barges.”
“It won’t be on the federal records?”
“It’s not on any map that exists outside the Valenti private archive,” Vance affirmed.
They scrambled down another ten feet of crumbling brick until the tunnel flattened out into a wider drainage culvert.
The roar of the thunderstorm outside grew louder, vibrating through the circular iron grating that sealed the culvert’s mouth.
Beyond the iron bars, sheets of black rain poured through the canopy of maple trees that lined the muddy ravine.
Vance dropped his flashlight, pulled a heavy iron crowbar from his belt, and jammed it into the padlocked hinge of the grate.
He threw his entire body weight against the bar.
The rusted iron groaned, screeched, and finally snapped with a sharp crack that sounded like a gunshot.
Vance shoved the heavy grate outward into the mud.
Cool, rain-washed air flooded into the stifling tunnel, smelling of wet earth, rotting leaves, and the nearby river.
Ella helped Leo climb through the narrow opening, catching him by his vest as his feet sank into the deep clay of the bank.
Vance followed, tumbling into the mud on his hands and knees, clutching his radio.
They stood in the deep shadow of the ravine, fifty feet below the rear terrace of Valenti Manor.
High above them through the trees, the mansion was blazing with light.
Every window on the second and third floors was illuminated, casting long, sharp beams across the manicured lawns.
Two black Suburbans with flashing amber clearance lights were idling near the conservatory.
Armed men in black tactical gear and rain ponchos were sweeping the perimeter with high-powered searchlights.
Ella pulled Leo behind the trunk of a massive weeping willow, shielding him from the glare of the lights above.
Leo looked up at the house, his eyes fixed on the terrace.
“Ella,” the boy whispered, tugging gently at her sleeve.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Ella asked, wiping rainwater from his pale forehead.
“The ring man didn’t push Dad’s car,” Leo said, his small voice cutting through the noise of the rushing storm.
Ella stopped moving.
Vance, who was checking his weapon, froze instantly in the mud.
“What did you say, Leo?” Ella asked, dropping down until her eyes were level with his.
“You told Uncle Dante that the man with the ring was there the night your father died.”
“He was there,” Leo said, nodding earnestly.
“He was standing in the rain next to the broken door.”
“Did he shoot your father?”
“No,” Leo said.
“He was pulling Dad’s arm.”
Ella felt a cold, electric shock travel up her arms.
“He was pulling him?”
“Dad was stuck,” Leo explained, his little voice trembling as the memory unlocked in his mind.
“The big black steering wheel was pushing against Dad’s chest.”
“And what was Colonel Cole doing?” Ella urged, keeping her voice completely calm.
“He was shouting,” Leo whispered.
“He was screaming: ‘Marco, wake up! Who cut the steering line? Who did this to you?’”
Ella stared at the boy in stunned disbelief.
“Cole was trying to rescue your father?”
“Yes,” Leo said, tears finally spilling over his lashes and mixing with the rainwater on his cheeks.
“He was trying to pull him out of the window before the red fire came.”
“Then why did your dad write that Cole was not to be trusted?” Vance demanded, stepping forward through the wet grass.
“Because Cole wasn't trying to save Marco to keep him alive,” a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the trees behind them.
Ella whipped around in sheer terror, instinctively shoving Leo behind her body.
Stepping out from the thick curtain of willow branches was Colonel Nathan Cole.
He was not wearing his midnight-blue dinner tuxedo anymore.
He wore a dark, waterproof tactical field coat over his shirt, his silver hair plastered to his forehead by the storm.
He was completely alone.
He carried no weapon in his hands; his palms were held open at waist height, glistening with rain.
On his right hand, the silver signet ring with the blood-red stone and the carved eagle caught the dim reflection of the mansion lights.
“Cole,” Vance choked out, raising his sidearm with trembling hands.
“Don’t do that, Marcus,” Cole said calmly, his voice steady as a metronome.
“If you pull that trigger, the eight men I stationed at the river dock will cut you in half before the shell casing hits the mud.”
Ella stood tall, her hands locked firmly onto Leo’s shoulders.
“He was seven years old,” Ella said, her voice burning with cold, protective fury.
“He was five years old when his father burned to death, and you used him as a pawn.”
Cole looked directly at Ella, his slate-gray eyes softening with an expression that looked shockingly like remorse.
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“I didn’t use him, young lady,” Cole said quietly, stepping an inch closer through the mud.
“I am the only reason that child wasn’t murdered in his crib eighteen months ago.”
