Chapter 8 - Breaking the Line
The submachine gun roared in the enclosed concrete corridor, spitting fire and deafening concussions that reverberated through Clara’s teeth.
She didn't aim to kill; the kickback was too violent for her bruised wrists to control. The spray of bullets chewed into Mercer's shins and knees, shattering bone and sending the doctor crashing to the stone floor with a high-pitched scream of agony. His revolver skittered across the floor, sliding beneath the heavy iron vault door.
Moreva moved like a striking viper.
He crossed the distance in two strides, his boot coming down with crushing force onto Mercer’s chest, pinning the screaming physician to the ground. In the same motion, Moreva snatched the fallen weapon from the shadows and turned the barrel toward Julian.
Julian froze on his hands and knees, staring at the black abyss of the muzzle. "Moreva... we're brothers. Blood doesn't kill blood. You know the code."
"The code died when you brought poison to our father's table," Moreva said.
He pulled the trigger once.
The single gunshot cracked through the cellar like thunder. Julian collapsed onto his side, his eyes staring blankly at the damp ceiling as the life pooled out onto the cold stone.
Silence rushed back in, heavy and suffocating, punctuated only by Mercer's ragged, whimpering breaths beneath Moreva's boot.
Clara let go of the submachine gun, her hands shaking so violently she had to press them against the floor to keep upright. The baby kicked hard inside her, a sharp, sudden pain that forced a gasp from her lips.
Moreva glanced at her, his expression unreadable behind a mask of sweat and blood spatter. He lowered his weapon and looked down at Mercer.
"The antidote," Moreva demanded, pressing his heel deeper into Mercer’s sternum. "For whatever Gable was feeding my father."
"In... in my medical bag," Mercer sobbed, clutching his shredded legs. "The black Mercedes... parked at the fountain... front pocket... atropine and pralidoxime... please, don't let me bleed out..."
Moreva didn't answer. He turned away, walking toward Clara and his father. He bent down, scooped Clara into his arms with surprising gentleness, and set her safely against the wall before turning back to Vittorio.
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The old man’s skin was turning a faint, ghastly blue. His chest barely moved.
"He won't make it to the car," Clara whispered, horror gripping her throat. "Moreva... he’s dying."
