Chapter 5 - THE SIEGE OF CLINIC 9
"There's a blast door leading to the old subway tunnel underneath the basement," Marcus yelled over the rising sirens. "We have ninety seconds before they cut the main power!"
I grabbed the heavy security laptop containing the digitized scan of my father’s true will, shoving it into a waterproof duffel bag along with Evelyn’s medical supplies.
"Marcus, come with us!" I shouted.
"No," the old doctor said, pulling a double-barreled shotgun from a hidden gun safe behind his medical certificates. "This is my facility. I'll delay them at the main doors. If Arthur sees me, he'll think you're still hiding in the upper labs. Take the maintenance shaft!"
"Uncle, no!" I protested.
"Go, Julian!" Marcus barked, racking the shotgun with a sharp clack-clack. "Protect her! Expose Bianca at the shareholder meeting tonight! It's at eight o'clock at the Maritime Plaza—that's where she intends to finalize the vote!"
I looked into my uncle's eyes, seeing the stubborn pride of the Vance family. I squeezed his shoulder once, grabbed Evelyn, and pulled her through the heavy steel doorway at the back of the medical vault.
As the heavy iron door sealed behind us, the thunder of shotgun fire echoed through the concrete walls behind us, followed by the muffled pops of automatic weapons fire.
Tears streamed down Evelyn's face as we scrambled down the rusty metal ladder into the dark dampness of the abandoned subway system.
"They're going to kill him, Julian..." she wept.
"We make sure his sacrifice isn't in vain," I said through gritted teeth.
The air in the subterranean tunnel was freezing and filled with the smell of old iron and stagnant water. I carried Evelyn along the narrow concrete ledge beside the dormant third rail. Every few minutes, the low vibration of light rail trains from the active city lines above shook dust down onto our heads.
"Where are we going?" Evelyn asked, leaning her head against my chest.
"To the person Bianca fears most," I said. "District Attorney Eleanor Vance-Cross."
Eleanor was our mother’s sister—an iron-willed federal prosecutor who had severed ties with the corporate branch of the family twenty years ago after accusing our father of regulatory corruption. She was the only person in the state with the authority to issue an immediate federal warrant against Bianca without going through the corrupt municipal court system.
We walked for nearly an hour through the dark labyrinths beneath Boston until we emerged from a storm drain manhole in an alleyway behind the Federal Courthouse.
Rain was pouring down in sheets, washing away the dirt and oil from our clothes. The city lights flared red and bright against the storm clouds.
I pulled open the rear service entrance of the judicial annex, flashing my old security credentials to the guard at the station. Ten minutes later, we were standing inside the high-ceiled executive office of District Attorney Eleanor Vance-Cross.
Eleanor, a woman in her late fifties with sharp silver hair, a crisp black suit, and eyes like polished obsidian, stood up from behind her massive mahogany desk. She looked at me, then looked at the emaciated, pale woman clinging to my arm.
The mug of black coffee in her hand slipped, shattering on the hardwood floor.
"My God..." Eleanor whispered, her voice trembling. "Julian? Evelyn?"
"Aunt Eleanor," I said, setting the duffel bag onto her desk. "Thirty-six months ago, my sister buried my bride alive under the floorboards of Vance Manor. And three years ago today, she murdered my father."
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Eleanor stared at us in absolute, stunned silence for five full seconds. Then she walked to her office door, locked it, drew the blinds, and picked up her private red telephone.
"Get me the head of the FBI Field Office," Eleanor commanded into the receiver, her voice dropping into icy steel. "And tell the Tactical Response Unit to prepare for an immediate raid on Maritime Plaza."
