Chapter 3 - The Cold Tunnel
The metal cylinder clattered against the damp brick stairs, hissing white-hot sparks before Falcon could draw another breath. Instinct older than reason took over. Knowing the concussive heat would burn the baby's lungs to ash in the enclosed stairwell, Falcon kicked the tumbling canister with the steel toe of his work boot, volleying it down the corridor away from Beatrice and into an abandoned brick alcove.
The grenade detonated with a muffled, concussive roar, belching thick, toxic smoke and blinding white phosphorus. Falcon wrapped himself completely around Rosie, his back absorbing the wave of scorching heat that stripped the varnish off the ancient subterranean archway. The baby shrieked, an ear-splitting, terrified scream that echoed endlessly down the flooded passage.
"Move, Beatrice!" Falcon roared through a mouthful of sulfur, his throat raw.
They plunged through ankle-deep runoff water that smelled of mud and stagnant river sludge. The tunnel had been carved in the nineteenth century as an escape route for smuggling cargo into the Blackwood estate, but neglect had left the ceiling sagging. Every few yards, heavy oak timber groaned beneath the weight of the waterlogged earth above.
Behind them, heavy boots stomped down the stone steps. Vane’s men were ruthless; they weren't turning back because of a little smoke. They were hunting a newborn whose blood carried a legitimate claim to the entire Vane enterprise—a fortune built on extortion, harbor shipping, and decades of quiet assassinations.
"How far to the waterline?" Falcon demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as they reached a fork in the brickwork. He pulled the woolen blanket away from Rosie’s mouth, checking her breathing. Her face was flushed, tiny chest heaving rapidly, but she was drawing air.
"A hundred yards," Beatrice panted, holding up a sputtering emergency flare she had struck against the tunnel wall. "The old rowing skiff is tied beneath the culvert. But Jax... you're bleeding out."
Falcon glanced down. A shard of flying greenhouse glass had pierced his side beneath his ribs during the blast, slicing through his shirt. Blood was soaking through his dark waistline, dripping steadily into the murky water at his feet. The cold had numbed the sensation, but the dizziness was already creeping at the edges of his vision.
"Blood is cheap," Falcon said grimly. "She needs warmth and shelter."
They reached the culvert opening where the subterranean tunnel vomited into the swollen Blackwood River. Rain pounded the swollen, churning water, churning white caps against the jagged limestone banks. Tied to an iron ring in the retaining wall was a battered wooden flat-bottom boat.
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Falcon stepped in, the timber rocking precariously under his weight. He gently transferred Rosie to Beatrice’s arms, the old woman tucking the child beneath her wool mantle like a mother hen shielding her chick from hawks.
Falcon untied the mooring line, his hands slick with river foam and his own blood. As he shoved the boat out into the violent current, a laser sight painted a bright red dot directly between his eyes from the embankment above.
