Chapter 85 - The Breach on Commonwealth
Marcus was across the room before the screech of rubber had even faded into the cold night air. He extinguished the banker's lamp with a sweep of his hand, plunging the grand foyer into near-total darkness.
"Down," Marcus commanded, pressing me against the wall beside the curved staircase.
Pendelton was already moving toward the back hallway, his hand slipping inside his coat for his own compact revolver. "Was it a tail from the highway?"
"No," Marcus hissed, peering through the slight slit in the boarded bay window. "Local plates. Two black Suburbans. No headlights. They bypassed the front gate by cutting the hinges with a torch."
"The Iron Anchor," Evelyn said calmly from the shadows behind me. She hadn't ducked. She hadn't run. She stood tall in the dark, her hand resting on the marble mantelpiece. "Thomas didn't wait for midnight. He traced the activation of the brownstone’s emergency power grid."
"Clara and Sofia are still in the Lincoln," I said, panic flaring like white heat in my chest. "Marcus, your family is in that driveway!"
"Clara has two of my best men in the follow vehicle," Marcus whispered, his jaw set like iron. "And she knows what to do when the perimeter is breached."
As if answering him, the muffled pop-pop-pop of suppressed gunfire erupted in the courtyard below.
A heavy thump shook the back of the house—the service entrance had been forced. Glass shattered in the conservatory, followed by the heavy, disciplined crunch of combat boots on hardwood.
"They aren't here to negotiate," Marcus said, racking the slide of his automatic. "Pendelton, take Evelyn and Sarah down to the coal chutes. There's an old tunnel connecting to the alley behind Newbury Street."
"I am not running from my own house, Marcus," Evelyn snapped.
"You will if you want Sarah to live long enough to sign that charter!" Marcus snarled back, the authority in his voice brooking no debate. "Move!"
Pendelton grabbed my arm, but I pulled away. "I’m not leaving you behind, Marcus. We survived Hell’s Kitchen together. We survived the Roosevelt. You don't get to die for me twice."
Marcus looked at me in the dim gray moonlight filtering through the cracks in the boards. A faint, proud smile touched his lips. "You really are David’s girl. But this isn't Manhattan, Sarah. They don't want me. They want the bloodline heir."
Heavy footsteps pounded up the back stairs.
A flashlight beam danced across the ceiling of the gallery. A voice—harsh, raspy, carrying the thick cadence of Boston’s old dockyards—barked through the gloom: "Search the upper suites! Sterling wants the girl alive! The rest are collateral!"
Marcus stepped out from the archway and fired three rapid rounds down the hallway.
A grunt of pain and the crash of a body tumbling down the wooden steps confirmed his mark. Return fire immediately tore through the plaster walls, showering us in white dust and splinters.
"Sarah, go!" Marcus ordered, firing two more rounds to suppress the advance.
Pendelton dragged me toward the hidden panel beneath the main staircase. Evelyn, realizing the immediate danger, moved with shocking agility for a woman her age, pulling the false wainscoting back to reveal a narrow, concrete staircase descending into the subterranean darkness.
"Clara's car is moving!" I gasped, glancing through the splintered windowpane.
Outside, the black Lincoln broke through the side gate with a roar of its engine, tires spinning on the slick cobblestones as it led the second enemy vehicle away from the house in a desperate diversion. Clara had seen the ambush and drawn the fire away from us.
"She’s heading for the river," Marcus said over his shoulder, his magazine clicking dry and another slapping home with mechanical precision. "She’ll circle back to the rendezvous point at the old pump station. Now get in the damn chute!"
Evelyn went first, her flashlight beam illuminating the damp brick walls of the old coal cellar. Pendelton pushed me after her.
Just as I stepped onto the first concrete riser, the heavy oak front doors of the mansion blew inward with a deafening blast. The shockwave threw Marcus forward onto the marble floor.
Through the cloud of smoke and splintered timber, a man stepped into the foyer.
He was massive, wearing a heavy navy deck coat, his face scarred along the cheekbone, holding a tactical shotgun. His eyes swept over Marcus, then locked directly onto me at the top of the cellar stairs.
"Well, well," the man rasped, raising the barrel directly at my chest. "The Miller girl. Arthur said you were just a waitress."
Marcus, bleeding from a gash on his forehead, rolled across the marble floor and lunged, slamming his entire weight into the gunman’s knees.
The shotgun blasted harmlessly into the ceiling, bringing down a shower of plaster and crystal from the shattered chandelier.
"Run, Sarah!" Marcus roared as he grappled with the giant in the dust. "Sign the paper! End it!"
May you like
Pendelton slammed the heavy iron coal door shut, throwing the bolt from the inside, plunging us into the cold, breathing dark beneath the city.
***
