Chapter 14 - The Strike at the Terminals
The hours before a battle are always the quietest.
The kitchen was filled with the rhythmic sound of my knives slicing through smoked ham and sharp cheddar cheese as I packed fifty high-calorie field rations for the men. Sandwiches made on crusty sourdough, hard-boiled eggs dusted with sea salt, thermoses of steaming coffee laced with chicory and sugar, and thick slabs of dark chocolate fudge.
Each man took his brown paper package from my hands as they filed past the prep counter toward the armored transport vans waiting in the underground garage.
“Eat before you fight, Marco,” I told the young recruit, buttoning the collar of his tactical vest tightly around his throat. “A low blood sugar makes your hands shake.”
“Yes, Ma,” Marco whispered, his eyes shining with nervous resolve. “I’ll bring you back some fresh spices from the waterfront if we clear the docks.”
“Just bring yourself back in one piece,” I warned him, tapping his chest with the back of my hand. “Or I’ll bring you back from the dead just to kill you myself.”
The convoy rolled out of the estate gates at 1:00 AM, disappearing into the blinding blizzard like a fleet of ghost ships.
The mansion was left under the protection of a skeleton crew: six older guards, Dr. Mercer, and me.
For four hours, the silence in Ravenwood was suffocating. I spent the time scrubbing the pantry shelves until the wood gleamed, unable to sit still, my Sig Sauer weighing heavily in my apron pocket. Every gust of wind against the heavy steel shutters sounded like a breaching charge; every groan of the ancient stone foundations sounded like approaching boots.
At 4:45 AM, the red emergency phone on the kitchen wall rang.
I crossed the room in two strides, ripping the receiver off the cradle. “Kitchen.”
“Maggie.”
It was Roman. His voice was ragged, breathing hard over the static of a satellite uplink. The sound of heavy machine-gun fire and screaming men echoed violently in the background.
“Roman! Are you all right?” I cried, gripping the receiver until my knuckles turned white.
“The terminal is ours,” Roman coughed, his voice tight with pain. “Ruslan’s main force was wiped out. But… we have a problem.”
My heart plummeted into my stomach. “Who’s hit?”
“Vincent took two rounds to the abdomen. Bruno is pinned down covering our retreat with an empty rifle, and Mercer’s clinic at the docks was compromised. We’re bringing sixteen critical casualties back to Ravenwood in twenty minutes.”
A pause. Then Roman’s voice softened, dropping through the static with raw, unfiltered desperation.
“Maggie… the doctor at the docks is dead. Mercer is the only one left, and he can’t work four tables at once. If you don't help him save Vincent and Bruno, they won't make it to sunrise.”
I closed my eyes for one fraction of a second. I saw the blood on the linoleum. I saw my mother’s dying face in the hospital ward. I saw the scared eyes of the killers who called me *Ma*.
“Bring them to the kitchen,” I ordered, my voice turning to pure, tempered steel.
“The kitchen?” Roman asked, stunned.
“The refectory table is wider than the pool table, and the stainless prep stations can be sterilized in ninety seconds. Have Dante drag every bottle of medical-grade alcohol from the clinic up to the third burner. I’m boiling the instruments now.”
I slammed the receiver down, tied my hair back with a bandana, and ignited all six burners on the Garland range.
May you like
The war had finally entered my sanctuary.
***