Chapter 29 - The Final Stand
"Clara, call Thorne," James ordered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register that I had never heard in all our years of marriage. He marched to the closet, reached up behind the top shelf, and pulled down a locked steel lockbox containing the emergency satellite communicator Thorne had handed us earlier that afternoon as a precaution.
"He said they were watching us," I cried, my hands shaking so violently I dropped the satellite phone twice before successfully punching in the emergency sequence.
The connection connected on the third ring with a harsh, static hiss.
"Thorne!" I screamed into the receiver. "They have the boys. They’re at the downtown facility—the old basement vault."
"I know," Thorne's voice came through the speaker, calm, urgent, and underscored by the sound of screeching tires and sirens in the background. "I intercepted the intercept. The syndicate's recovery team moved in forty minutes ago. Listen to me very carefully, Clara: do not go down there alone. I am mobilizing a federal tactical unit to breach the rear service alley within six minutes."
"Six minutes is too long," James shouted over my shoulder, grabbing his heavy work jacket and pulling a thick iron tire iron from the mudroom basket. "They have my kids, Thorne. I'm not waiting for a tactical unit."
Before I could stop him, James bolted out the front door toward our station wagon.
I didn't argue. I grabbed the satellite phone, shoved it into my coat pocket, and followed him into the car.
The drive downtown took eight minutes of reckless, blinding speed through red lights and empty intersections, the rain beginning to fall again in heavy, blinding sheets that smeared the city lights into streaks of red and gold.
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When we pulled into the alley behind the Clara & James Miller Foundation, the building was dark except for a single dim light flickering above the iron service door leading down to the sub-basement.
The door was unlocked, swinging slightly on its hinges in the wind.
