Chapter 7 - The Lower Catacombs
Christian searched Clara’s eyes for any hint of bluff, but there was only steel. He released her shoulder with a sharp curse, nodding once toward the hidden hallway beside the staircase. ""Keep the dog close. If he barks down there, the echo will give away our position to the vents.""
Clara dropped to one knee, whispering into Titan’s ear. The Cane Corso pressed his muzzle against her cheek, his tail giving a single, disciplined flick before falling into step right beside her thigh.
They moved rapidly through the secondary service corridors, descending the winding stone steps that led beneath the estate’s foundation. The opulent marble and crystal gave way to damp limestone walls and cold, dripping pipes. The smell of aged wine and saltwater grew stronger with every step.
Above them, the muted concussions of heavy boots crashing through the front entryway vibrated through the stone ceiling. The mansion was officially breached.
""They're clearing room by room,"" Christian said, moving quietly along the corridor with his weapon drawn. ""They have thermal scopes. The stone walls will hide our heat signature for ten minutes, no more.""
""The boathouse has the twin-engine cigarette boat?"" Clara asked, jogging to keep pace with his long strides.
""Yes. But the harbor mouth is patrolled by private coast guard vessels paid off by the Syndicate,"" Christian replied. ""We can't just cruise out into the bay. We have to hit dock seventy-four from the water side, breach the container, and slip into the commercial shipping lanes before dawn.""
They reached the heavy iron door of the wine cellar. Christian punched a six-digit code into an antiquated mechanical lock. The heavy bolts pulled back with a metallic groan.
Inside, the cellar stretched into the gloom, lined with hundreds of dust-covered vintage bottles. But halfway down the center aisle, Titan suddenly halted. His hackles rose along the spine, a terrifying ridge of stiff black hair.
""Titan, what is it?"" Clara whispered, reaching for his neck.
Christian immediately raised his hand, freezing them both in place. He looked at the shadows pooling behind the center racks of French oak barrels.
A faint laser dot, emerald green and needle-thin, appeared on Clara's chest, tracing a steady path toward her heart.
""Don't move,"" Christian breathed, his finger tightening on his trigger.
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From behind the largest barrel, a silhouette stepped out into the dim emergency lighting. The figure was wearing a tactical vest, his face half-shadowed, holding a high-caliber sidearm with casual, lethal familiarity.
""Hello, little sister,"" the man said, a crooked, terrible smile spreading across his scarred face. ""I thought Christian would have put a bullet in your head by now.""
