Chapter 5 - THE VAULT
“Move! Now!” Damian roared.
He didn't hesitate. He grabbed Ethan in his arms. Vanessa grabbed the medical bag. Claire snatched Molly by the hand, lifting the terrified little girl off her feet.
They ran down the back servant corridor, away from the grand staircase where the flashlights of a dozen armed men were already sweeping up the walls.
Marcus had brought a syndicate hit squad. He was wiping the slate clean tonight.
Damian led them down a narrow, hidden staircase that dumped them into the estate’s massive basement. He kicked open the door to the old prohibition-era wine cellar. At the back of the cellar was a heavy steel door locked with a biometric keypad.
It was a panic room Damian had built when Ethan was born.
Damian pressed his bloody thumb to the scanner. The light blinked green, and the heavy pneumatic locks hissed open.
They poured inside. Damian slammed the door shut and threw the manual deadbolts just as the sound of boots reached the cellar.
The safe room was lined with concrete. It had emergency lighting, a cot, and a week’s worth of rations.
Damian laid Ethan on the cot. The boy was gasping now, his chest heaving irregularly.
Vanessa tore open the medical bag. She hooked up the portable oxygen tank and placed the mask over Ethan’s pale face.
“His pulse is dropping, Damian,” Vanessa said, her voice shaking. “The adrenaline dump from waking up... the poison is attacking his weakened heart muscle.”
“You said you’ve been giving him the antidote,” Damian said frantically.
“A slow chelator!” Vanessa cried. “It removes it over time! He’s in acute crisis right now. He needs Epinephrine to restart the heart rhythm, or he’s going to go into cardiac arrest in less than ten minutes.”
Damian ripped through the medical bag. “Where is it?”
Vanessa looked at him with sheer horror in her eyes.
“I didn't pack it,” she whispered. “It requires refrigeration. It’s in the mini-fridge in his bedroom upstairs.”
Silence descended on the room, broken only by Ethan’s ragged, wheezing breath.
Outside the heavy steel door, they heard the muffled sound of Marcus shouting orders. They were setting up breaching charges. The door would hold for maybe twenty minutes.
Damian looked at Ethan. Then he looked at the heavy steel door.
“I’m going out,” Damian said coldly. He pulled a spare magazine for his sidearm from the safe room supply shelf. “I’ll fight my way up to the third floor, get the vial, and bring it back.”
“It’s suicide,” Vanessa said. “There are at least ten men out there with automatic weapons.”
“He’s my son,” Damian said. He cocked the gun. “Lock the door behind me.”
“Wait,” Claire said.
Damian turned. Claire was staring at the wall behind the supply shelves.
“Mrs. Daley showed me the blueprints of the house when I started,” Claire said, her voice trembling but steady. “This estate was built in 1920. There’s a dumbwaiter shaft that runs from the basement directly up to the third-floor linen closet. It bypasses the main halls completely.”
Damian frowned. “The shaft is too narrow. I’d never fit.”
Claire looked at Damian. Then she looked down at Molly, who was clutching her rag doll, watching her mother with wide, scared eyes.
Claire knelt and kissed Molly’s forehead.
“You stay with Mr. Rourke, baby,” Claire whispered.
She stood up, tying her hair back. “I’ll fit. Tell me exactly what the vial looks like.”
“Claire, no,” Damian said. “They’ll kill you.”
“I’m a mother, Mr. Rourke,” Claire said fiercely. “And there is a child dying on that cot. Point me to the shaft.”
Damian stared at the housekeeper he had barely spoken to before tonight. He saw a core of absolute iron in her eyes.
He moved the heavy supply shelf. Behind it, a small wooden panel was bolted to the stone. Damian pried it off, revealing a dark, vertical brick shaft that smelled of dust and old wood. The ropes of the ancient dumbwaiter still hung down into the darkness.
“The third floor linen closet is right next to his bedroom,” Vanessa said quickly. “The vial has a red cap. Top shelf of the fridge.”
Claire took a small flashlight from the emergency kit. She grabbed the thick rope and shined the light upward.
She pulled herself into the tight, claustrophobic shaft and began to climb.
She climbed for what felt like hours, her arms burning, the brick scraping her elbows. She heard men shouting in the hallways just inches away through the walls.
Finally, she reached the top. She pushed the wooden door open slightly.
The linen closet was empty.
Claire squeezed out of the shaft. She crept into the hallway. The third floor was eerily quiet; the men were all downstairs trying to breach the vault.
She slipped into Ethan’s room. She found the mini-fridge. She grabbed the vial with the red cap.
She let out a breath of relief. She turned back to the hallway.
And froze.
Standing in the doorway, bleeding from the head, holding a heavy wrench, was Mrs. Daley.
The head housekeeper stared at Claire.
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“You shouldn't be up here, dear,” Mrs. Daley said coldly.
And she raised the wrench.
