Chapter 5 - The Enforcer
-5-
The man standing in the doorway was a monolith of violence. He wore a heavy black trench coat, dripping wet from the storm, and his face was scarred with a jagged line that ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. In his right hand, he held a suppressed tactical submachine gun, casually pointed at the stone floor. But it was his eyes—dead, flat, and devoid of any human empathy—that made Nora’s breath catch in her throat.
“Victor,” Julian said, his voice cold, steady, and devoid of fear. His Glock remained leveled perfectly at the center of the man’s chest.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” Victor replied, his gravelly voice grating like stones crushing together. He took a slow step forward, a heavy limp in his right leg emphasizing his massive frame. “I see you’ve found your mother’s little treasure. Arthur will be very pleased. He’s been looking for that journal for nearly two decades.”
“How did you get past my security?” Julian demanded, his mind calculating angles and distances in the small, confined space of the hidden office.
Victor chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Your security? Half of the men on your payroll have been taking Prescott money for years, Julian. You think you rule Alderwyn? You’ve been living in a cage we built for you. Marcus was a loyal dog, I’ll give him that. But a bullet to the back of the knee usually changes a man’s priorities.”
Nora let out a stifled gasp. If Marcus was down, they were entirely alone.
“I heard your voice that night,” Nora said, stepping slightly out from behind Julian’s broad shoulder. Her fear was entirely eclipsed by a sudden, white-hot surge of anger. “In the winter garden. You were the one who threw her over the balcony.”
Victor’s dead eyes shifted to Nora, assessing her like a minor nuisance. “Ah. The groundskeeper’s brat. I should have wrung your neck when we ran your father’s truck off the road. You’ve caused a lot of trouble for a little mouse, Eleanora. But tonight, we’re going to correct that mistake.”
Victor raised the submachine gun.
Julian didn’t hesitate. He fired two shots in rapid succession. The deafening CRACK of the 9mm rounds echoing inside the small stone chamber was physically painful.
The first bullet struck Victor in the shoulder, spinning him backward. The second sparked off the stone wall behind him as he stumbled into the corridor.
“Run!” Julian roared, grabbing Nora by the arm and shoving her toward a secondary, narrow tunnel at the back of the hidden office—a servant’s escape route that his mother’s schematics had marked on the wall.
They plunged into the darkness just as a hail of suppressed gunfire shredded the wooden desk behind them, turning the corkboards and photographs into a blizzard of paper and splinters. Julian kept a tight grip on the leather journal, clutching it to his chest as he navigated the pitch-black tunnel by memory and touch.
The air in the escape tunnel was stale, suffocating, and thick with cobwebs. Nora stumbled blindly, her hands scraping against the rough limestone walls, but Julian’s grip on her arm never faltered. He was her anchor in the terrifying dark.
“Where does this lead?” Nora gasped as they hurried forward, the sound of Victor’s heavy, limping footsteps echoing distantly behind them.
“To the old boathouse on the river,” Julian replied, his breathing heavy but controlled. “My grandfather used it to move contraband during Prohibition. There should be a speedboat docked there. If we can reach the river, we can lose them in the storm.”
They ran for what felt like miles, the tunnel winding beneath the vast estate of Alderwyn, a subterranean testament to the secrets this family had kept for generations. Finally, the air shifted, growing cooler and smelling of fresh rain and river algae. A faint, grey light appeared ahead.
Julian kicked open a rusted iron door, and they burst into the cavernous interior of the old boathouse. The structure was built directly over the rushing waters of the Connecticut River, the wooden planks slick with moisture. In the center slip sat a sleek, dark-grey speedboat, covered by a tarp.
“Get in the boat!” Julian shouted, tossing the journal onto the passenger seat and jumping in to tear the tarp away. He reached under the console, frantically crossing wires to hotwire the ignition, bypassing the need for keys.
Nora scrambled into the boat, shivering violently from the cold and adrenaline. She looked back at the iron door they had just come through. It burst open with a terrifying crash.
Victor stood in the doorway, bleeding heavily from his shoulder, his face twisted in a mask of pure, homicidal rage. He raised his weapon.
May you like
“Get down!” Julian yelled, tackling Nora to the floor of the boat just as the engine roared to life with a deafening, thunderous growl.
Bullets chewed through the fiberglass hull of the boat and shattered the windshield, raining glass down on them. Julian threw the throttle forward with a desperate, savage yank. The speedboat launched out of the boathouse like a missile, tearing through the wooden outer doors and flying out into the turbulent, rain-swept expanse of the river, leaving the Prescott enforcer screaming in rage on the docks behind them.
