Chapter 7 - The Battle in the Dark
Two men stepped down from the staircase into the dim, earth-scented air of the wine cellar. They wore dark tactical gear, face masks, and carried small submachine guns hung from shoulder slings. The lead man carried a heavy yellow plastic case containing commercial demolition charges.
"Hurry up," the second man grumbled, shining his flashlight across the dust-covered wine racks. "The boss wants this entire wing down before the police arrive."
"Keep your shirt on," the lead man replied, setting the yellow case down on a wooden tasting table in the center of the room. "Once we blow this pillar, the whole floor above collapses into the cellar. Calder won't survive the fall."
Hiding behind a massive oak wine barrel ten feet away, Clare breathed slowly through her nose, keeping her movement silent. She knew this cellar better than any person alive. She knew that the third floor planking above the tasting table was dry pine, and she knew that the heavy iron wheel used to operate the old freight hoist hung directly above the lead man's head.
She didn't hesitate.
Clare reached out with the iron crowbar, caught the release lever of the historic freight hoist mounted on the wall beside her, and yanked it down with all her body weight.
With a deafening metallic screech, the thirty-pound iron counterweight fell six feet, releasing a heavy oak storage pallet loaded with two hundred pounds of empty glass bottles directly above the demolition team.
The pallet crashed down onto the tasting table with a terrifying explosion of shattering glass, splintering oak, and heavy iron.
The lead man was knocked instantly to the floor, stunned by the falling weight, while his partner was thrown backward against the stone wall, dropping his flashlight and submachine gun into the darkness.
Clare didn't wait for them to recover.
She surged forward out of the shadows, swinging the heavy iron crowbar with a fierce, sweeping motion. The iron bar struck the second man's shoulder with a sickening crack, knocking him off balance and driving him down onto the glass-strewn flagstones.
He groaned, reaching for the sidearm holstered at his belt, but Clare kicked the weapon across the room, the steel gun sliding under a row of wine racks into the dark.
The lead man, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, scrambled onto his knees and reached for the yellow demolition case.
Clare stepped over the broken glass, raised the crowbar above her head, and brought it down hard onto the yellow plastic case, shattering the electronic timer mechanism before he could arm it.
"You bitch!" the man snarled, lunging upward to grab her by the throat.
His fingers caught the collar of her wool sweater, pulling her down onto the stone floor. Clare fought like a mother wildcat, gouging at his eyes, striking his face with her knuckles, and twisting her body to keep him from reaching his fallen weapon.
Suddenly, the heavy oak door at the top of the cellar stairs was kicked open with a thunderous bang.
A towering figure stepped through the doorway, backlit by the red emergency strobes of the service corridor.
Roman Calder.
His face was splattered with rain and gunpowder, his dark eyes burning with an unholy, terrifying rage as he took in the scene below: the shattered glass, the fallen demolition team, and Clare fighting on the floor.
Roman didn't use his gun.
He descended the stone stairs in three massive strides, caught the man attacking Clare by the back of his tactical vest, and lifted him completely off the floor with one arm.
Roman slammed the man into the granite support pillar with enough force to knock the air entirely from his lungs. Before the attacker could recover, Roman delivered two devastating hooks to his jaw, knocking him cold before his body hit the flagstones.
The second attacker tried to crawl away through the broken glass, but Roman stepped on his ankle, pressing down until the man cried out in agony.
"Where is Moretti?" Roman roared, his voice echoing off the stone vaulting like a cannon shot.
"In... in the lead SUV..." the man gasped, weeping from pain. "Outside the main gate... he's waiting for the explosion..."
Roman kicked the man's weapon away, turned, and dropped to his knees beside Clare, who was sitting up against a wine barrel, gasping for air, her auburn hair falling loose around her face.
His large, calloused hands gently caught her face, his thumbs wiping away a smudge of soot from her cheek. His hands were shaking.
"Are you hurt?" Roman demanded, his voice thick with an emotion he had never shown to any living human being. "Clare, look at me. Are you hurt?"
Clare looked up into his dark eyes, seeing the raw, unshielded terror in his face—terror not for his empire, his house, or his life, but for her.
"I'm okay," she gasped, resting her hands over his shaking fingers. "I'm okay, Roman. The charges... they didn't blow."
Roman pulled her into his arms, wrapping his massive coat around her, burying his face in her hair as he held her tightly against his chest. "You insane, brilliant woman," he whispered hoarsely into her neck. "You were supposed to stay in the safe room."
"I told you," Clare whispered back, her arms wrapping around his neck, holding him just as tightly. "I'm not letting you manage this house alone."
They held each other in the dim, cool cellar for a long moment, surrounded by broken glass and fallen enemies, while the storm outside slowly began to die down.
Suddenly, a small, tentative voice echoed from the dark corner of the cellar.
"Mommy?"
Clare and Roman immediately broke apart and turned.
Standing at the edge of the safe room corridor, holding his wooden train in one hand and the brass compass in the other, was four-year-old Owen. He had used the emergency override key Clare had left near the latch to unlock the bunker door.
He looked at the two men lying unconscious on the floor, then at Roman and his mother sitting among the broken glass.
"Did the thunder stop?" Owen asked softly.
May you like
Roman stood up, reached down, and lifted Clare gently to her feet. Then he walked over to the four-year-old boy, knelt down, and picked him up, resting the child securely on his hip.
"Yes, Owen," Roman said, his voice deep, soft, and completely steady. "The thunder stopped. And it's never coming back to this house again."
