Chapter 3 - Blood on the Marble
The smell of rotten eggs began to seep through the vents, faint but lethal.
Sadie choked, covering her nose with her uniform sleeve. "Desmond, the gas—"
"I know," Desmond said, his voice dropping into a register of pure tactical steel. He rolled his chair over to a gun rack on the far wall, smashing the glass with the butt of his pistol. He pulled out a lightweight tactical shotgun and handed it to her. "Can you handle this?"
"I've fired a shotgun once at a summer camp," Sadie said, racking the slide with a terrifyingly loud CHCK-CHCK. "I missed the clay pigeon but hit the instructor’s truck."
"Just aim at anything wearing black," Desmond said, pulling an automatic submachine gun into his own lap. "We don't take the tunnel. We go up."
"Up? Frank is right outside the door!"
"Exactly. He thinks we're trapped like rats. He expects us to die in the gas or run down the tunnel where his men are waiting. He doesn't expect us to blow the door from the inside."
Desmond grabbed a small, magnetic brick of C4 explosive from a secure drawer. He handed it to Sadie. "Place it on the center seam of the vault door. Now."
Sadie ran to the heavy steel door. The heat from Frank’s thermal lance was already burning through the top corner, a bright orange line glowing like a demonic finger. She slapped the explosive onto the center handle, her hands wet with sweat, and jammed the electronic detonator into the clay.
"Get behind the desk!" Sadie yelled, diving behind the heavy mahogany barrier next to Desmond.
Desmond didn't look away from the screen. He waited until Frank’s face was inches from the door, trying to peer through the small viewing slit.
"Happy retirement, Frank," Desmond muttered, hitting the remote trigger.
BOOM.
The explosion was deafening. The massive steel vault door didn't just open; it exploded outward like a missile, flying through the air and crushing Frank’s two lead mercenaries into the stone wall opposite. The shockwave blew out the thermal lance, sending a fountain of sparks and white smoke into the corridor.
Desmond didn't wait for the smoke to clear. His motorized chair roared to life, speeding out of the ruined bunker. He fired his submachine gun with one hand, his grip steady as a vice, clearing the remaining mercenary in the hallway before the man could even raise his weapon.
Sadie followed right behind him, the shotgun raised.
Frank Delaney was on the floor, his legs pinned beneath the heavy vault door. He was bleeding from his ears, his chest heaving as he stared up at the man he had betrayed.
Desmond stopped his chair right in front of Frank. The muzzle of his gun was warm, smoking slightly in the cold air of the cellar.
"Who paid you, Frank?" Desmond asked, his voice softer than a whisper, which made it infinitely more terrifying.
Frank spat blood, laughing weakly. "It doesn't matter, Boss. You're already dead. The whole city knows you're a cripple. You think the other families are going to let a man who can’t even walk run the docks?"
"I don't run the docks with my feet, Frank," Desmond said coldly. "I run them with this." He tapped his temple. "And unlike you, my brain still works."
"Wait!" Frank gasped as Desmond raised the weapon. "It was—it was your brother! Marcus! He’s the one who signed the contract!"
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Desmond froze. For a fraction of a second, a profound, agonizing betrayal flashed across his features. Marcus was his younger brother. The one he had protected, the one he had kept out of the trenches of the family business.
THE TWIST HOOK: Before Desmond could process the words, a tiny, bright red laser dot appeared on the front of Sadie’s uniform. It bobbed slightly, settling directly over her heart. A sniper was stationed at the end of the long wine cellar corridor, hidden in the shadows. "Sadie, drop!" Desmond roared, throwing his own body out of the chair to shield her.
