Chapter 8 - The Fury of a Mother Bear
The operative’s submachine gun dropped clattering to the concrete floor as the man buckled violently at the knees, his chest erupting in a dark spray of blood before he collapsed face-forward into the dirt.
Standing three paces behind him, half-hidden in the shadows of a utility alcove, was Maeve Murphy.
She wasn't holding a gun. She was holding a heavy, twenty-pound cast-iron skillet—one of the commercial-grade pans from the main kitchen that Mrs. Higgins must have given her for self-defense—dripping with dark residue along its iron rim.
Her oversized gray sweater was torn at the shoulder, her hair flying wild around her bruised face, and her chest heaving as she gripped the handle of the skillet with both hands like a medieval battle-axe.
“You... you killed him,” she breathed, staring down at the twitching body in disbelief.
“He was about to execute me and your hostage,” I said, lowering my pistol slightly, my eyes wide as I stared at her. “Where did you get that?”
“Mrs. Higgins told me to take it when the lights went out,” Maeve snapped, her voice shaking with adrenaline. She rushed past the dead operative, kneeling down to check the baby carrier strapped across his chest.
Wait.
The baby carrier?
My eyes dropped to the canvas pack. I stepped closer, kicking the dead man’s rifle away with my boot, and reached down to unzip the front flap of the carrier.
Inside wasn't Noah.
It was a bundle of heavy winter coats rolled up tightly to simulate the weight of an infant.
My blood ran instantly cold.
“Where is he?” I demanded, grabbing Maeve’s arm.
Maeve looked up at me, her green eyes flashing with pure, unadulterated panic. “I hid him. When the first explosion went off upstairs, I knew they weren't here for me. I put him in the dumbwaiter shaft behind the old laundry room. It goes down to the lower sea-cave.”
“The sea-cave?” I cursed aloud, releasing her arm. “The tide comes in through that cave at high water! If the bulkhead is locked—”
“It’s not locked,” she said, her voice rising in desperation. “I left the latch open. But there are more of them coming down the main stairs right now. I heard their boots.”
Before I could answer, heavy footsteps pounded down the concrete corridor behind us—three men in tactical gear, shouting commands and sweeping their rifle lights across the walls.
“Move!” I grabbed Maeve by the wrist, pulling her toward the narrow utility bulkhead door.
“Wait—the kid!” she protested, trying to wrench her arm free.
“I’ll get him! You get through that tunnel to the boat-house!”
“I’m not leaving him!” she roared, jerking her arm back with such unexpected force that she actually broke my grip.
Instead of running toward the safety of the cliffside, Maeve turned around, grabbed the dead operative’s dropped submachine gun off the concrete floor, and slammed her finger onto the full-auto trigger without a second thought.
Ratt-tatt-tatt-tatt!
A wall of lead tore down the narrow corridor, shattering the overhead emergency lights and sending sparks flying off the concrete walls as the approaching tactical team scrambled frantically for cover, screaming in surprise.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” I yelled, grabbing her around the waist and bodily hauling her through the open bulkhead door as return fire chipped the steel frame inches from our heads.
May you like
I slammed the heavy iron door shut behind us, throwing the dual deadbolts into place just as a hail of bullets pinged harmlessly against the exterior plating.
We plunged into absolute darkness.
