Chapter 8 - The Siege of Elm Street
The sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed up the iron stairs of the fire escape outside the kitchen window.
"Brutus, down," Arthur commanded in a harsh whisper.
The massive Corso immediately dropped low, sliding behind the kitchen island, its teeth exposed in a silent, terrifying snarl.
Arthur reached into his coat, pulling out a sleek, black semi-automatic pistol that Dr. Vance had delivered earlier that morning. He checked the magazine with a single, fluid flick of his thumb, chambered a round with a heavy clack, and stepped in front of Maeve, pushing her gently behind his broad back.
"Stay behind me," Arthur ordered, his voice as cold and hard as frozen steel. "Do not move, no matter what happens."
"Arthur—" Maeve gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Crash!
The glass of the kitchen window shattered inward in a violent spray of sharp shards as a heavy, iron crowbar slammed through the frame.
A heavy boot kicked the remaining wood out, and a large, broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket scrambled through the opening, a silenced pistol raised in his right hand.
He didn't get the chance to acquire a target.
Arthur stepped forward with blinding speed. He didn't fire his weapon; instead, he grabbed the man's wrist with his left hand, twisting it violently downward until the iron bone snapped with a sickening crack. The man let out a muffled shriek of pain, but before he could fall, Arthur slammed his heavy right fist directly into the man's throat, crushing his windpipe, then threw his massive body backward out the window.
The man fell two stories, slamming hard onto the iron dumpster below with a wet, heavy crunch.
"Vane sent six men!" a voice shouted from the alley below. "Breach the front door! Burn the floor!"
"The front door!" Maeve screamed, pointing toward the hallway as the heavy wood frame began to splinter under the impact of a sledgehammer.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
"Brutus!" Arthur roared. "Guard!"
The massive Cane Corso launched itself forward like a dark projectile, sprinting down the narrow hallway just as the front door gave way.
A heavy-set gunman burst through the splintered wood, raising a shotgun. Brutus didn't hesitate. The hundred-and-thirty-pound dog leaped through the air, its massive jaws locking onto the gunman's forearm, dragging him violently to the floor in a flurry of screams, tearing flesh, and frantic curses.
Arthur moved down the hallway with terrifying, lethal grace.
He raised his pistol, firing three precise shots—phut, phut, phut—through the doorway into the dark landing outside.
Two gunmen collapsed onto the stairs, their weapons tumbling uselessly down the wooden steps.
The third gunman, standing near the top landing, raised a heavy revolver, firing blindly into the apartment.
The bullet ripped through the plaster wall six inches from Maeve's head, spraying white dust into her hair.
Arthur didn't flinch. He stepped directly into the line of fire, raised his weapon, and put a single round cleanly through the gunman's forehead. The man folded like a ragdoll, tumbling backward down the stairs.
Silence descended over the hallway, thick and heavy, broken only by the low, guttural growl of Brutus standing over the unconscious, bleeding gunman near the door.
Maeve stood frozen in the center of the living room, her hands pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror as she looked at the carnage in her hallway.
Arthur stood in the doorway, the smoking pistol held at his side, rain and wind blowing through the shattered kitchen window behind him. He looked like an ancient god of war standing amidst the ruins of a conquered temple.
He turned slowly, looking at Maeve.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice thick with adrenaline, his gray eye sweeping over her body to check for blood.
"I... I'm okay," Maeve choked out, her knees trembling so violently she had to hold onto the sofa to stay upright. "I'm okay..."
Arthur closed the distance between them in two large strides. He dropped the gun onto the sofa, reached out, and pulled her forcefully into his arms, wrapping his heavy, muscular frame around her, burying his face in her hair.
"God," Arthur breathed, his chest heaving as he held her so tightly she could barely draw air. "God, Maeve..."
Maeve wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his broad chest, smelling the sandalwood, rain, and gunpowder clinging to his clothes. She wasn't terrified of him; she was terrified of the world that kept trying to tear him away from her.
A sudden, sharp siren began to wail in the distance—the sound of police cruisers responding to the gunshots reported by the neighbors.
Arthur pulled back slightly, looking down into her hazel eyes.
"The police will be here in three minutes," Arthur said firmly. "My transport is waiting two blocks away. We leave now, or we spend the night in a precinct cell."
Maeve looked at her ruined apartment—the shattered window, the bullet holes in her wall, the splintered front door. Her old life was completely, utterly gone, burned to ash in less than five minutes.
She looked up at Arthur Romano.
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"Let's go," Maeve said, her voice dropping all hesitation, turning as hard and firm as his own.
Arthur offered her a dark, triumphant smile. He grabbed her hand, whistled for Brutus, and led them down the rear stairs into the fog-covered night.
