Chapter 11 - The Rat in the House
The blast door of the storm cellar was solid steel, six inches thick, designed to withstand a military siege.
Inside, the room was small, lit by a single amber emergency bulb, lined with non-perishable supplies, medical kits, and heavy blankets.
Finn was clutched in my lap, trembling violently. Above us, the muffled sounds of high-caliber rifle fire shook the ceiling, raining tiny flecks of dust down upon our heads.
“Harper,” Finn whimpered, his face buried against my sweater. “The noises. They’re here.”
“I know, baby. I know,” I rocked him back and forth, humming softly, trying with every ounce of my will to hide the terror threatening to crush my lungs. “Remember the anchor. Breathe with me. In. Out.”
Every gunshot felt like a strike against my own flesh. Was Victor hit? Was Marcus down? Was Moretti’s squad pouring into the house above us right now?
*Take care of our boy. I’m coming back for you.*
His words echoed in my head. *Our boy.* He had said *our boy.*
For forty-five agonizing minutes, the firefight raged above. Then, slowly, the shooting began to taper off. A burst here. A single shot there.
Then—complete, terrifying silence.
I sat in the dark, my muscles locked, my ears straining against the heavy steel door.
Ten minutes passed. Nothing.
Then, the heavy sound of boots echoed on the cellar stairs outside.
My heart seized. I reached into the emergency kit beside me and pulled out a heavy steel flare gun—the only weapon left in the cellar. I cocked it, pointing it directly at the wheel mechanism of the blast door.
The heavy iron wheel began to turn.
*Clank. Clank. Screech.*
The door pulled outward.
Standing in the amber light was Marcus. His tactical vest was shredded at the shoulder, covered in grime and soot, but his face was calm. Behind him stood Victor.
Victor looked like he had crawled out of hell. His sweater was torn, his knuckles bloody, a fresh gash running down his cheekbone, his gun hanging loose by his side.
When his eyes found mine in the dim light of the cellar, the tension drained from his face so fast he nearly swayed.
“Victor,” I breathed, lowering the flare gun.
Finn looked up, saw his father, and broke into a wail. “Dad!”
Victor dropped to his knees right there on the concrete threshold. He opened his arms, and Finn scrambled out of my lap, launching himself into his father’s chest. Victor wrapped both arms around the boy, ignoring the agonizing pain it must have caused his freshly stitched ribs, burying his face in Finn’s neck.
“I’ve got you,” Victor whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’ve got you, Finn. It’s over.”
Marcus stepped beside me, offering a hand to help me up. His voice was low and grim. “They’re all dead, Harper. But Victor was right. It wasn't a lucky guess. They had our GPS coordinates.”
I looked at Victor over Finn’s head. “Who gave it to them?”
Victor looked up. His gray eyes were colder than the frozen lake outside.
May you like
“My brother-in-law,” Victor said, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. “Elena’s brother. Julian.”
***