Chapter 8 - THE TICKET
The blinking red light on the digital watch vanished into the darkness of the flooded tunnel, swallowed by the mud.
“Five minutes,” Tommy rasped, his head lolling against the wet brick wall. He was beaten, his wrist shattered, but the triumphant sneer never left his bloody face. “You can’t run back up to the house in time. And the hatch is welded shut. Checkmate, old man.”
Panic clawed at my throat. I looked at Malcolm. The massive crime boss was leaning against the wall, his breathing shallow. He looked down at his grandson, a look of profound, devastating sorrow in his eyes. He had fought so hard, only to fail the one person he loved.
“There has to be a way,” I said frantically, grabbing the flashlight and shining it up at the iron hatch. “There has to be a release mechanism. You said he wouldn't trap himself!”
“I lied,” Tommy chuckled, coughing up blood. “I don't need this hatch. I have the boat ticket. I was walking out the front door after you burned.”
I looked down at the VIP boarding ticket still clutched in my hand. South America. A new life, bought with the blood of an old man and a little boy. The sheer injustice of it ignited something hot and fierce in my chest. I wasn't just a terrified maid anymore. I was furious.
I marched over to Tommy, grabbed him by the lapels of his ruined suit, and slammed his head back against the brick wall.
“How do we open it?” I screamed in his face.
Tommy just smiled, his teeth stained red. “You don’t. Enjoy the dark, Sarah.”
“Mr. Rook,” I pleaded, turning to Malcolm. “What do we do?”
Malcolm slowly pushed himself off the wall. He didn’t look at Tommy. He looked at the heavy iron hatch above us, then at the rusty hinges connecting it to the stone ceiling.
“The hinges aren't welded,” Malcolm said quietly. “Only the latch.”
“So what?” I asked, desperate.
“So, if we destroy the hinges, the door falls inward,” Malcolm explained, pulling the heavy silver revolver from his waistband. It was the gun he had aimed at me earlier. “This is a .44 Magnum. Armor-piercing rounds. It’s meant to stop an engine block.”
“You’re going to shoot the hinges?” Tommy mocked from the floor. “In a confined space? The ricochet will kill you before the bomb does!”
“Maybe,” Malcolm said coldly. He turned to me. “Sarah. Take Leo. Get as far down the tunnel as you can. When the door drops, you run. Don't look back.”
“I’m not leaving you!” I cried.
“I’m not asking!” Malcolm roared, the old, terrifying authority returning for one final command. “Protect my boy. Go!”
I grabbed Leo’s hand and ran, pulling the little boy behind a stack of rotted wooden crates about twenty yards down the tunnel. I covered his body with mine, pressing my hands over his ears.
BANG.
The gunshot in the underground tunnel was deafening, a physical force that hit my chest like a hammer. The sound of tearing metal shrieked through the darkness.
BANG.
A shower of sparks rained down from the ceiling. A piece of jagged metal whistled past my head, embedding itself into the wooden crate behind me.
Silence followed.
“Mr. Rook?” I called out, my voice ringing in the ringing silence.
I grabbed the flashlight and ran back toward the hatch.
Malcolm was on his knees, blood pouring from a fresh gash on his forehead where a piece of shrapnel had grazed him. But above him, the heavy iron hatch was hanging by a single, twisted piece of metal.
“Help me,” Malcolm grunted, reaching up.
I dropped the flashlight, grabbed the edge of the iron door, and pulled with all my might. With a horrific screech of tearing steel, the hatch gave way, crashing down onto the tunnel floor, missing Tommy’s legs by inches.
Cold, fresh rain poured through the opening, washing the stale air away.
“We did it!” I laughed, tears streaming down my face.
“Four minutes,” Tommy spat, his voice laced with sudden panic as he realized his trap had failed. “You still won’t make it past the outer gates! The security system is locked down!”
Malcolm grabbed the rungs of the ladder and pulled himself up into the storm. I practically threw Leo up to his grandfather, then scrambled up the ladder after them.
We emerged into the flooded driveway of the outer estate. The storm was raging, lightning illuminating the massive, wrought-iron security gates fifty yards away.
They were closed. And the keypad glowing ominously in the dark meant they were electronically locked.
We ran to the gate. Malcolm hammered his fist against the keypad.
“It’s overridden,” Malcolm shouted over the thunder. “Tommy changed the master code.”
“Three minutes!” Tommy’s voice echoed faintly from the tunnel below.
“Shoot it!” I yelled at Malcolm.
“I’m out of bullets,” he yelled back, tossing the empty revolver onto the wet asphalt.
We were standing in the pouring rain, staring at the impregnable iron bars separating us from freedom, knowing that underneath our feet, enough C4 to level a city block was ticking down to zero.
I fell to my knees, holding Leo tight. We had come so close.
Suddenly, Leo wriggled out of my arms. He walked up to the glowing keypad.
“Leo, back away!” Malcolm warned.
But the little boy reached up with a trembling finger and began pressing the buttons.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“I know the numbers,” Leo said softly, his blue eyes illuminated by the green glow of the keypad. “I watched the bad man with the gold watch type them yesterday when he locked the gardener out.”
Before we could react, the keypad flashed green.
A loud, mechanical clank echoed through the storm, and the massive iron gates slowly began to swing open.
But as the gates parted, a dark figure suddenly hauled himself out of the smuggler’s hatch behind us.
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Tommy Marlow. He had crawled out, dragging his broken leg, his eyes wild with absolute madness. And in his unbroken hand, he held a long, serrated hunting knife.
“If I don't get the empire,” Tommy screamed, lunging directly at little Leo’s exposed back, “nobody does!”
