Chapter 7 - THE STAIRWELL
The heavy steel door of the safehouse groaned as Dante slammed the deadbolt shut, buying them exactly three minutes. The hallway outside was already echoing with the heavy, synchronized thud of boots.
“They cut the elevators,” Dante said, his voice remarkably steady as he checked his magazines. “They’re coming up the fire stairs. We’re on the twelfth floor. Boss, we can’t hold off twenty men with handguns.”
“We don’t hold them off,” Rico said, his face an impenetrable mask of lethal focus. He moved to the kitchen island, sweeping a heavy cast-iron pan onto the floor. Beneath it was a hidden floor safe. He punched in a code, hauled the heavy door open, and pulled out two tactical vests and a pair of compact submachine guns. He tossed one to Dante.
“We go on the offensive,” Rico commanded, strapping the Kevlar over his dress shirt. “We carve a path to the service elevator in the north wing. It has a separate power grid.”
Clara stood by the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around Leo. The boy had buried his face into her neck, terrified by the sudden violence radiating from his father. Clara’s mind raced. Twenty men. Julian. The monster who had run her sister off the road. The monster whose father had burned her parents alive in Chicago.
“Clara,” Rico said, stepping over to her. He didn’t offer her a gun. He knew she wouldn’t know how to use it. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his heavy silver watch—the one with the Moretti family crest. He pressed it into her palm, folding her fingers over it.
“If Dante and I fall,” Rico said softly, his dark eyes boring into hers, “you take the service elevator to the sub-basement. Show this watch to the old man who runs the boiler room. His name is Viktor. He owes my father his life. He’ll smuggle you and Leo out of the city.”
Clara shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. “No. We stay together. You are not leaving this boy an orphan.”
Rico reached out, his thumb gently wiping a tear from Clara’s cheek. It was an incredibly intimate, tender gesture in a room preparing for war. “Elena hid you in the shadows to keep you safe. Tonight, I make sure you stay there.”
BOOM.
The reinforced door of the safehouse shuddered as a battering ram struck it from the outside. Plaster rained from the ceiling.
“Go!” Dante yelled, providing cover near the door.
Rico grabbed Clara’s arm and led her toward the back bedroom. He kicked the door open, moving to the walk-in closet. He pushed the heavy wooden shelves aside, revealing a small, industrial ventilation panel. He kicked it hard, shattering the lock, and pushed the grate outward. It opened into a narrow, dark utility corridor.
“The service elevator is fifty yards down this hall,” Rico instructed, helping Clara and Leo through the opening.
“What about Maria?” Clara gasped, looking back at the elderly nanny who was cowering under the dining table.
“I’ve got her,” Rico promised. He started to pull back into the apartment, but Clara caught his sleeve.
“Rico. Promise me.”
Before he could answer, the front door of the apartment blew off its hinges with a deafening explosion. Smoke and debris flooded the living room. Gunfire erupted instantly, the deafening roar of automatic weapons filling the air.
“Run, Clara!” Rico shouted, shoving the closet shelves back into place, sealing her and Leo in the dark utility corridor.
Clara didn’t hesitate. She clutched Leo to her chest and ran blindly down the narrow, dusty hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs. The sounds of war echoed through the walls—shouts, shattering glass, the relentless pop-pop-pop of gunfire.
She reached the service elevator. She mashed the call button frantically. Come on. Come on.
The heavy metal doors slid open. Clara rushed inside and hit the button for the sub-basement. But before the doors could close, a massive hand shot through the gap, stopping them.
Clara screamed, stumbling backward.
The doors forced open, revealing a man in a tactical vest. But it wasn’t Rico. And it wasn’t Dante.
It was a man in his late thirties. The entire left side of his face was a twisted, shiny mass of pink and white burn tissue. Julian.
Julian smiled, raising a silenced pistol and pointing it directly at Clara’s head. “Well, well,” he rasped, his voice sounding like grinding gravel. “Silas said Elena had a sister. You look just like her.”
Leo peeked over Clara’s shoulder. The boy’s eyes went wide. He pointed a trembling finger at the man. “The fire man,” he whispered.
Julian’s smile widened into something grotesque. “Smart kid. Too bad he talks too much.”
Julian’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Clara didn’t have a gun. She didn’t have a knife. But she had something Julian didn’t know about. With a fierce scream, Clara hurled Rico’s heavy, solid-silver watch squarely at Julian’s face.
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The heavy metal struck Julian perfectly on the bridge of his nose with a sickening crack. He howled in pain, stumbling backward, dropping the gun.
Clara slammed her fist into the control panel, hitting the override button. The heavy steel doors slammed shut, severing Julian’s furious scream, and the elevator began its rapid, plunging descent into the dark.
