Chapter 6 - THE SILVER TRAY AND THE RUSSIAN COURIER
The sickening CRACK of the heavy silver tray connecting with Thomas's skull echoed like a gunshot in the small safe room.
Thomas let out a startled, breathless groan. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed onto the carpet, dropping the silenced pistol.
He hit the floor like a sack of stones and didn't move.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Frank stood over the unconscious body of his only son, still gripping the dented silver tray in his trembling hands. His chest heaved with ragged breaths. He looked down at the man who had murdered his daughter, the man he had just struck down, and a low, agonizing wail tore from his throat.
It was the first sound I had ever heard Frank make.
I snapped out of my shock and moved instantly. I dove for the silenced pistol on the floor, grabbing it with shaking hands. It was heavy and cold. I pointed it at the door, making sure nobody else was coming in, then quickly engaged the safety and stuffed it into the pocket of my apron.
"Frank," I whispered, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
He dropped the tray. It clattered loudly against the floor. He fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
Sophie, terrified and confused, ran to her grandfather and threw her arms around his neck, crying with him.
I knew we didn't have time to grieve.
If Thomas had bought off the guards in this hallway, he could have bought off others. The safe room was no longer safe. We were sitting ducks.
I ran to the steel door and peeked out into the hallway.
The two guards were still unconscious on the floor. At the far end of the long corridor, I saw the elevator doors beginning to open.
More men in dark suits stepped out. They weren't Luca's guards. They were moving too quickly, carrying small, compact submachine guns.
The Bratva. They had bypassed the perimeter.
I slammed the heavy steel door shut and threw the deadbolt, locking us inside again.
"Frank, look at me," I said aloud, tapping his shoulder urgently to get his attention.
He looked up, his face pale and wet with tears.
We have to hide, I signed frantically. Men with guns are coming. We can't stay here.
Frank nodded, forcing his grief down, prioritizing the survival of his granddaughter. He stood up, wiping his face, and grabbed Sophie’s hand.
I looked around the safe room. It was designed to be impenetrable from the outside, but if they brought explosives, the door wouldn't hold forever. We needed another way out.
I remembered cleaning this room months ago. I remembered noticing that the large, built-in mahogany bookshelf against the back wall didn't sit flush with the baseboards.
I ran to the bookshelf and started pulling books off the middle shelf, throwing them onto the floor.
"What are you doing?" Sophie cried.
"Looking for a secret," I muttered, feeling around the wooden backing.
My fingers found a small, recessed latch. I pressed it hard.
A loud click echoed from behind the wood.
I grabbed the edge of the shelf and pulled. The entire bookcase swung open on hidden hinges, revealing a dark, narrow passageway.
It was a panic tunnel, built into the original architecture of the mansion.
"Go," I pointed into the dark tunnel, signing to Frank. Take her. Don't stop until you reach the end.
Frank didn't hesitate. He picked Sophie up in his arms and stepped into the darkness.
I turned back to the room. Thomas was still unconscious on the floor. I looked at the note he had left, the poisoned water in the fern. If I left him here, the Russians would wake him up, and he would tell them exactly where the tunnel went.
I couldn't let that happen.
I grabbed Thomas by the collar of his jacket and dragged his heavy, limp body across the carpet. I heaved him into the dark passageway with Frank and Sophie.
Just as I stepped inside and pulled the heavy bookcase shut, I heard the sound of heavy boots kicking the steel door of the safe room.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
I pulled the hidden latch, locking the bookcase from the inside.
We were plunged into total darkness.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and turned on the flashlight. The narrow, dusty tunnel stretched out ahead of us, descending slightly into the bowels of the mansion.
"Keep moving," I whispered to Sophie, though she couldn't hear me over her own crying.
Frank carried Sophie, and I dragged Thomas by his ankles, his head thumping softly against the concrete floor. We moved as fast as we could in the cramped space.
Above us, I heard a muffled explosion.
They had blown the safe room door.
Dust rained down from the ceiling of our tunnel.
"Hurry," I urged, grabbing Frank's shoulder and pushing him forward.
We walked for what felt like miles, but was probably only five minutes, twisting and turning through the foundation of the massive estate. The air grew damp and cold.
Finally, the tunnel ended at a heavy iron door.
Frank set Sophie down and pushed against the door. It was rusted, but it gave way with a loud screech.
We stepped out into the night air.
We were in the old, abandoned wine cellar beneath the guest house—the exact place Thomas had been living for four years.
I shined my flashlight around. The cellar was massive, filled with empty wooden racks and dusty crates.
But as the beam of light swept across the room, it caught something that made my blood run cold.
Sitting in the center of the cellar was a large, heavy wooden crate. It had been pried open.
Inside the crate were dozens of sleek, modern assault rifles, wrapped in plastic.
"What is this?" I breathed.
Thomas hadn't just been hiding in the guest house. He had been using it as a weapons cache for the Bratva. He had turned Luca's own property into a staging ground for the Russians right under his nose.
Suddenly, a low groan echoed from the floor behind me.
Thomas was waking up.
He rolled onto his side, clutching his head, his eyes fluttering open in the dim light of my flashlight.
He saw me. He saw Frank and Sophie standing by the door.
He didn't look remorseful. He looked cornered.
"You stupid maid," Thomas hissed, spitting blood onto the stone floor. He forced himself up onto his knees. "You think you can run? They have the entire perimeter surrounded. You're dead."
I pulled the silenced pistol from my apron pocket and pointed it directly at his head.
"Don't move, Thomas," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.
Thomas laughed, a dark, rattling sound. "You won't shoot me. You're a housemaid."
He lunged for me.
I didn't think. I just reacted.
I squeezed the trigger.
Pfft.
The suppressed gunshot was terrifyingly quiet.
Thomas stopped mid-lunge. He looked down at his left leg. A dark red stain was spreading rapidly across his expensive trousers.
I had shot him in the thigh.
He collapsed onto the floor, screaming in agony, clutching his leg.
"I'm a housemaid," I said, my hands shaking so badly the gun rattled. "But I'm also a sister. And I know what monsters look like."
I turned to Frank. Tie him up.
Frank grabbed a length of heavy rope from a nearby crate and quickly bound his son's wrists and ankles, his face a mask of absolute, heartbroken resolve.
I pulled out my phone to call Luca.
No signal. The thick stone walls of the cellar blocked everything.
We were on our own.
I looked at the heavy iron door leading up to the guest house above us. If the Russians were in the mansion, they would be coming here soon to secure their weapons.
We had to get out.
"Frank," I signed, pointing to the stairs. We have to run for the woods. It's our only chance.
Frank nodded. He picked Sophie up again.
I walked toward the stairs, keeping my gun raised.
But as I reached the bottom step, the heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs creaked open.
A massive silhouette stood in the doorway, blocking our only exit.
A man stepped into the light.
He was holding a submachine gun.
But it wasn't a Russian.
It was Luca.
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He looked at me, covered in dust, holding a gun. He looked at Frank and Sophie. And then, he looked at Thomas, bleeding on the floor.
"Rachel," Luca said, his voice a deadly, quiet hum. "Did you shoot my wife's murderer?"
