Chapter 8 - THE BASEMENT FLOOR BATTLE
-8-
My shoulder hit the gunman squarely in the thighs with the force of a freight train.
He let out a sharp grunt as his legs buckled out from under him, his boots sliding across the slick concrete floor. The suppressed pistol flew from his grip, skittering across the room and clattering into the darkness beneath a row of steel shelving units.
Before he could recover his balance, I slammed my fist into the side of his jaw, the hard bone of my knuckles connecting with a sickening crack. He staggered backward, his head slamming against the heavy steel door of the vault, leaving a dark smudge of grease and blood on the metal.
“Get her!” I screamed over my shoulder, turning my attention toward Vanessa, who was still pinned against the far wall by the second operative.
The second man abandoned Vanessa instantly, drawing a combat knife from his belt and lunging toward me with lethal speed. The blade flashed in the dim light of my fallen phone, catching the edge of my heavy coat and slicing through the fabric like paper, missing my ribs by less than an inch.
I spun away from the strike, my heel catching a heavy cardboard box stacked on the floor and sending it crashing down between us, spilling dozens of old, yellowed ledger binders across the concrete. The operative tripped over the tumbling files, stumbling forward and sprawling hard onto the floor.
Without hesitating, I leaped over the spilled papers, grabbed Vanessa by her bound wrists, and hauled her toward the wooden staircase leading back up to the foyer.
“Move!” I yelled, shoving her ahead of me.
We scrambled up the wooden steps as fast as her expensive boots and tied hands would allow, the sound of cursing and groaning echoing from the concrete floor below us as both men began picking themselves up from the wreckage.
We burst through the basement door into the grand foyer.
The front double doors of the house were standing wide open. Standing just inside the threshold, holding a heavy-duty zip tie in one hand while another masked operative stood behind her with a hand clamped firmly over her mouth, was Emily.
And right beside her, crying hysterically in the grip of a stranger, was Lily.
“Emily!” I screamed, a wave of blind fury washing over me.
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The operative holding Emily spun around, drawing a small, snub-nosed revolver from his waistband and leveling it straight at my chest as Vanessa and I reached the top of the stairs.
“Stop right there, hero,” the man hissed, his finger tightening against the trigger. “One more step and the kid takes the first bullet.”
