Chapter 8 - THE PRICE OF BLOOD
Time slowed to a crawl.
I didn't think. I just reacted. I threw myself sideways, dropping the rifle and lunging across the damp stone floor directly into the path of Caldwell's gun.
The suppressed pistol coughed—thwip, thwip.
The first bullet grazed my shoulder, tearing through my coat. The second caught me in the side, just below my ribs. It felt like a hot iron rod being driven through my flesh.
I hit the ground hard, gasping for air, sliding across the wet stone.
"No!" Elena screamed from the shadows.
Caldwell cursed, shifting his aim back toward the boy. But before he could pull the trigger, Elena charged out from the corridor. She didn't have her gun—she must have dropped it in the dark. Instead, she had the heavy, rusted iron padlock we had found on the shattered gate.
She slammed the jagged metal directly into the side of Caldwell's skull.
Caldwell roared in pain, dropping the detonator as he staggered sideways. He backhanded Elena across the face, sending her crashing to the floor, but the damage was done. The detonator skittered across the stones, vanishing into the darkness.
I forced myself up to my knees, blood pouring down my side. Caldwell recovered quickly, turning his pistol toward Elena.
I drew the hunting knife from my belt and threw it.
The blade buried itself deep into Caldwell's forearm. He screamed, dropping the gun.
I didn't give him a chance to recover. Ignoring the burning agony in my side, I tackled him. We slammed into a stack of wooden crates, sending them splintering around us.
Caldwell was older, but he was fueled by twenty years of pure hatred. He drove his knee into my wounded side. White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes, and my grip faltered.
He shoved me off, scrambling on his hands and knees toward where his gun had fallen.
I grabbed his ankle, dragging him back. He kicked wildly, catching me in the jaw, but I held on. I pulled myself up his leg, wrapping my arm around his neck in a brutal chokehold.
"This is for Julian," I snarled, tightening my grip as he thrashed.
Caldwell clawed at my arm, his face turning purple, his eyes bulging. He reached desperately behind him, his fingers finding a broken piece of wood from the shattered crates. He stabbed it backward, burying the jagged splinter into my thigh.
I roared, my grip loosening just enough for him to break free.
He rolled away, gasping for air, and lunged for the pistol on the ground. His hand closed around the grip. He rolled onto his back, raising the barrel squarely at my chest.
"Checkmate, Ashford," he wheezed.
A deafening boom echoed through the catacombs. It wasn't Caldwell's suppressed pistol. It was a massive, concussive roar.
Caldwell’s chest exploded outward in a spray of red. His eyes widened in shock before he collapsed backward onto the stone floor, dead before he even realized what had happened.
I turned slowly, clutching my bleeding side.
Standing at the entrance of the chamber, leaning heavily against the stone archway, was Marco. He was pale as a ghost, sweating profusely, leaning on a makeshift crutch made from a pew. In his free hand, he held his smoking rifle.
"Told you... not to leave me... at the boatyard," Marco panted, before sliding slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.
The silence that followed was absolute.
I looked over at Elena. She was scrambling toward the statue of the Virgin Mary. She fell to her knees, pulling the terrified little boy into her arms, burying her face in his dirty hair.
"I got you," she sobbed, rocking him back and forth. "Mommy’s got you."
I took a step toward them, wanting to say something. Wanting to tell the boy that he was safe.
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But the adrenaline suddenly vanished, replaced by a cold, numbing darkness. My legs gave out.
I hit the stone floor. The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was the little boy looking at me over his mother’s shoulder, his eyes wide and full of wonder.
