Chapter 7 - Countdown
A deep, low vibration echoed through the heavy concrete walls of the sub-basement.
High above them, in the main house, a series of muffled, subterranean charges detonated along the secondary structural pillars. Dusty concrete dust began pouring down from the ceiling, and the smell of raw, unrefined natural gas immediately began filling the vault.
Warning. Gas main integrity compromised, an automated computer voice echoed from the wall speaker. Facility lockdown in ninety seconds.
Victor laughed maniacally, dropping the spent detonator onto the floor. “The main valves are locked open! In sixty seconds, the furnace ignition will trigger a secondary blast! You can't stop it!”
Damian delivered a devastating right hook to Victor’s jaw, knocking the man instantly unconscious against the stone floor.
He stood up, breathing heavily, his ribs bleeding where the glass cut had reopened.
“Martha! The manual emergency valve is behind that steel cage!” Damian shouted, pointing toward a heavy chain-link enclosure at the rear of the vault.
Martha ran across the room, illuminating the cage with her rifle light.
Inside the enclosure sat a massive, bright-red iron wheel connected to a four-inch gas line. The door to the cage was locked with a heavy, industrial-grade steel padlock.
“I don't have the key!” she yelled back.
Damian rushed over, raised his shotgun, and fired two point-blank heavy slug rounds directly into the padlock mechanism.
The lock shattered into twisted metal pieces.
Martha yanked the iron door open, grabbed the heavy red wheel with both hands, and put all her weight into turning it clockwise.
The valve was rusted, completely frozen from years of disuse.
“It’s stuck!” she gasped, her muscles straining as the overpowering smell of natural gas grew thicker in the air.
Damian stepped behind her, reaching his broad arms around her sides, placing his heavy hands over hers on the iron wheel.
“Together,” he commanded in her ear. “On three. One... two... three!”
They drove their combined weight downward.
With a loud, metallic screech, the rusted valve finally gave way, turning three full rotations until it locked hard against the brass seat.
The rushing sound of high-pressure gas instantly died.
Gas main isolated, the automated voice announced calmly. Ventilation scrubbers activated.
Martha collapsed back against Damian’s chest, her body shaking from exhaustion and the massive adrenaline crash.
Damian held her steady, his hands resting gently on her shoulders, his warm breath resting against her neck as the sub-basement scrubbers hummed to life, pulling the toxic fumes out of the room.
For a long moment, neither of them said a word.
In the dim light of the tactical flashlight, Martha looked down at her hands resting beside his on the iron valve.
She realized with sudden, absolute clarity that the man standing behind her—the feared mafia boss she had spent nine days plotting to execute—had just put his life on the line to help her avenge her brother.
Damian gently stepped back, looking down at her.
“Are you alright?” he asked softly.
Martha looked up into his slate-gray eyes, wiping a streak of dark grease from her cheek.
“I’m alive,” she said quietly. “Thanks to you.”
Damian glanced over at the unconscious body of Victor lying on the floor, then looked at the black briefcase containing the server drives.
“It’s not over yet, Martha,” Damian said, his voice returning to its hard, professional edge. “Victor was just the local muscle. The federal handler who betrayed your brother is still sitting in an office in downtown Boston.”
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Martha’s eyes hardened into cold flint.
“Then let’s go finish Andrew’s job.”
