Chapter 5 - Fire in the Woods
Vincent’s transformation was instantaneous.
In the fraction of a second it took for the second gunshot to echo through the pine trees, he shoved Norah down behind the heavy oak base of the sofa, his Sig Sauer clearing its holster before his feet even hit the floor.
“Stay down!” he hissed.
The glass of the front bay windows exploded inward in a cascade of glittering deadly shards. Automatic gunfire ripped through the living room, chewing through the timber walls, shattering family heirlooms, tearing into the leather sofa above them. Plaster dust and splintered wood rained down like snow.
Norah curled into a ball, covering her ears, her scream swallowed by the deafening roar of the ambush.
From the hallway, Marco appeared, returning fire with short, disciplined bursts from his submachine gun. “Back door breached!” Marco yelled through the smoke. “They dropped in through the tree line with thermal optics! Boss, it’s Hale’s elite crew! Julian’s leading them!”
Vincent leaned around the corner of the stone fireplace, firing three rapid shots. A man in black tactical gear collapsed through the shattered window frame, his weapon clattering across the hardwood floor.
“Where’s the Suburban?” Vincent shouted.
“Tires shredded! They hit the garage first!” Marco ducked as a burst of rounds chewed through the doorframe inches above his head. “We’re boxed in!”
Vincent looked down at Norah. His face was smeared with dust and gun smoke, but his eyes were blazing with a terrifying, protective fire. He reached down, grabbed her by the wrist, and hauled her to her feet, keeping his body between her and the window.
“The wine cellar,” Vincent ordered, his voice cutting through the panic. “There’s an old underground service tunnel built during Prohibition that leads to the boathouse on the lake. Marco, cover the hall!”
“Move, Boss! Go!” Marco shoved another magazine into his rifle and leaned into the line of fire.
Vincent dragged Norah through the kitchen, kicking open a reinforced wooden door that led down a steep flight of stone stairs into the dark, damp belly of the house. The sound of gunfire above them was muffled by the thick stone foundations, but the vibration of explosions—concussion grenades—rattled the dust from the ceiling beams.
They reached the cellar. Thousands of dusty bottles lay on racks stretching into the gloom. Vincent ran to the far wall, shoved aside a heavy rack of French oak barrels, and revealed a narrow iron door set directly into the stone.
He spun a combination dial on the heavy latch. The door groaned open with a rusty shriek, revealing a dark, claustrophobic tunnel smelling of mud and stagnant lake water.
“Get in,” Vincent said, thrusting a small tactical flashlight into her hands. “Run straight until you hit the wooden ladder. Do not stop. Do not look back.”
Norah grabbed his sleeve, terror constricting her throat. “You’re coming with me!”
“I have to buy Marco time to reach the tunnel, or he dies up there,” Vincent said, checking the remaining rounds in his magazine.
“Vincent, no! You said you’d protect me! You can't protect me if you’re dead!”
Vincent stopped. In the dim, amber beam of the flashlight, he looked at her. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of her neck, and pulled her toward him, crashing his mouth down onto hers.
It wasn't performative. It wasn't for the cameras or Raymond Hale’s spotters.
It was fierce, desperate, and intoxicating. The taste of salt, gunpowder, and raw desire exploded through Norah’s senses. His lips bruised hers, demanding everything, giving everything, anchoring her to him in the midst of the nightmare.
When he pulled back, his eyes were burning.
“I’m not dying tonight, Mrs. Moretti,” he whispered roughly against her lips. “Now get in the tunnel.”
He shoved her gently inside and pulled the heavy iron door shut, locking it from the outside.
Norah stumbled into the darkness, her chest heaving, the taste of his kiss lingering on her tongue like fire.
She ran.
The tunnel was narrow and wet, the ceiling barely six feet high. Water dripped onto her hair; roots from the ancient pine trees above broke through the earthen walls like skeletal fingers. Behind her, through the solid earth, she could hear the deep, rhythmic thuds of gunfire continuing in the house above.
She ran until her lungs burned, her sneakers sliding in the slick mud, her flashlight beam dancing erratically across the damp stone.
After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel sloped upward, terminating at a heavy wooden hatch set with an iron ladder. She climbed the rungs, shoved the hatch upward with all her strength, and tumbled out onto the wooden floorboards of the boathouse.
Outside, the lake was a churning tempest of black water, whipped into fury by the howling wind. Docked in the central slip was a sleek, matte-black Midnight Express speedboat, its triple outboards gleaming in the darkness.
Norah collapsed onto the wooden planks, gasping for air, staring back at the hatch.
One minute passed.
Two minutes.
The gunfire from the main house had stopped. A terrifying, heavy silence settled over the estate, broken only by the roar of the rain and the slapping of waves against the pylons.
*No,* Norah thought, tears spilling down her cheeks. *No, please, God, no.*
She crawled back toward the open hatch, peering down into the black abyss of the tunnel. “Vincent?” she whispered frantically. “Vincent!”
Footsteps pounded through the mud below. Rapid, heavy, staggering.
A blood-soaked hand reached up through the opening, gripping the edge of the wooden floorboards.
Norah screamed, grabbing the wrist with both hands.
Vincent hauled himself up into the boathouse, tumbling onto his back, coughing violently. Behind him, Marco dragged himself up, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side, blood soaking through a makeshift tourniquet around his bicep.
Vincent’s face was pale, his shirt shredded, but his eyes were alive.
“Told you,” Vincent gasped out, offering her a bloody, defiant grin. “I don't break promises.”
“You idiot!” Norah sobbed, throwing her arms around his neck, burying her face into his bloodstained collar. “You complete idiot!”
Vincent let out a ragged groan of pain, but his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe. “Marco... start the boat. Before Julian realizes where that tunnel leads.”
Marco stumbled toward the console, flipping switches. The three 450-horsepower Mercury outboards roared to life with a deafening, throaty rumble that shook the entire boathouse.
Vincent pulled back, looking at Norah. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, metallic flash drive, pressing it into her palm.
“What is this?” she asked.
“The Dante folio wasn't the only thing delivered to the penthouse this morning,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper as Marco hit the motorized garage door button, opening the slip to the stormy lake. “My intelligence team finally cracked the encrypted manifests from the Port of Chicago. Raymond Hale isn't just smuggling contraband. He’s been moving weapons through the Great Lakes into federal military storage facilities. Treason, Norah. The kind of evidence that the FBI can't bury, no matter how many judges Hale has bought.”
The boathouse doors rolled up completely.
In the distance, through the trees, the timber mansion on the hill erupted into a towering inferno of orange flame, lighting up the stormy sky.
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“He burned my house again,” Vincent murmured, staring at the flames with an icy, terrifying smile. “Now, Norah... we burn his entire empire.”
***