Chapter 7 - SHADOWS OF THE MARONI
The second shot tore through the drywall three inches above Arthur’s head, raining white plaster dust down onto their tangled bodies.
Arthur rolled over, shielding Clara completely with his body, his Kevlar vest absorbing the flying glass from the shattered bay window.
"Stay down!" Arthur barked, drawing his SIG Sauer with his right hand while pressing Clara flat against the hardwood floor beneath the overturned dining table.
"It’s not the feds!" Clara yelled above the deafening crack of a third rifle shot. "Federal snipers use 7.62 suppressed! That’s a Barrett .50 cal—that’s a civilian anti-materiel rifle!"
"Frankie Maroni," Arthur growled, his gray eyes flashing with lethal clarity. "Bernardo’s eldest son. He had a secondary hit squad waiting outside the federal perimeter."
"He followed you here!" Clara accused, her eyes wide as another round punched a fist-sized hole through the thick mahogany table legs.
"He followed us!" Arthur corrected, grabbing her by the jacket harness and dragging her toward the heavy stone fireplace in the corner of the living room. "We need to clear the line of sight!"
They scrambled behind the stone hearth just as a heavy barrage of automatic gunfire erupted from the tree line outside.
The glass, wood, and drywall of the safehouse were being shredded into kindling.
Marco burst into the room from the side hallway, holding an MP5 submachine gun, firing blind bursts through the shattered window frame to buy them time. "Boss! They’ve got at least ten guys moving up the lawn! Frankie’s bringing up a tactical breaching team!"
Clara reached to her ankle holster, pulled her compact Glock 19, and checked the magazine. 15 rounds.
She looked up at Arthur. He was kneeling beside her, his body acting as a physical shield between her and the window, his eyes scanning the room for tactical exits.
There was no hesitation in his eyes. No calculation of self-preservation.
The billionaire boss who had spent five years hiding behind bodyguards was currently standing in front of her, ready to take a bullet to keep her breathing.
"Arthur," Clara said, grabbing his Kevlar vest to drag his focus to her. "The fireplace!"
Arthur looked at the massive stone structure. "What about it?"
"It’s an elite federal safehouse!" Clara said quickly, her intelligence officer mind working at warp speed. "Every safehouse of this tier has an emergency utility access crawlspace built into the chimney ventilation flue! It drops down into the lake drainage pipe!"
Arthur looked at the narrow iron grate inside the soot-covered hearth. "It’s barely eighteen inches wide!"
"Then you'd better breathe out," Clara said grimly.
She reached forward, grabbed the heavy iron tongs from the fireplace set, and jammed them into the latch of the ventilation grate, leveraging her weight until the rusty metal latch snapped open with a loud CLANG.
"Go!" Clara pushed Arthur toward the opening.
"Not a chance," Arthur growled, grabbing her under the arms and forcefully shoving her into the dark opening first. "You go. I'll cover Marco."
"Arthur, don't be a hero—"
"I’m not a hero, Clara!" Arthur shouted over the sound of splintering wood as the front door began to buckle under a breaching charge. "I’m the guy who replaces people by Tuesday! Now get down that damn pipe!"
Clara glared at him for one furious second, then slid backward into the narrow, damp vertical chute, her boots finding the steel rungs built into the brickwork.
Arthur turned back to the room.
"Marco! Fall back to the hearth! Now!"
Marco fired one last burst, ejected his empty magazine, and sprinted toward the fireplace just as the front doors exploded inward in a fireball of smoke and debris.
Three Maroni hitmen smashed through the smoke, their assault rifles raised.
Arthur didn't miss.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Three precise shots. Three bodies hit the floor.
Arthur grabbed Marco, hauled him by his vest, and crammed him into the chute. "Down! Go, go, go!"
Arthur stepped toward the hearth, ready to dive into the dark, when a voice boomed through the burning living room.
"COSTELLO!"
Arthur paused at the mouth of the fireplace, turning his head slowly.
Frankie Maroni stood in the center of the ruined room, holding a heavy assault rifle, his face twisted in psychotic glee.
"You lost your money, Arthur!" Frankie screamed, raising his rifle. "You lost your city! And now you're dying in a hole like a rat!"
Arthur looked at Frankie. Then he looked down at the brass key to the safehouse security system still hanging from his tactical harness.
Arthur didn't shoot Frankie.
Instead, he tossed the key onto the burning carpet near a leaky gas line from the destroyed fireplace heater, drew his gun, and fired one shot into the main gas pipe.
HISSSSSSS.
Frankie’s eyes widened in sudden, absolute terror as he realized what Arthur had done. "No—"
"See you in hell, Frankie," Arthur said quietly.
May you like
Arthur threw himself backward into the dark chimney chute, pulled the iron grate shut behind him, and let go of the rungs just as the living room above exploded into a roaring inferno of orange flame and collapsing brick.
Leave "YES" in the comments to unlock CHAPTER 8! Did Arthur survive the explosion, and where will they run next? 👇
