Chapter 12 - Fire in the Crags
The service shaft led down to the estate’s wine cellar, forty feet below the cliff line. Helena tumbled out onto the stone floor, weeping and clutching her bleeding leg. Julian dropped through the opening immediately after, catching Dominic by the collar as the traitor landed heavily, groaning in agonizing pain.
Above them, boots stomped across the shattered study floor, accompanied by the muffled thwip-thwip of suppressed automatic rifles systematically checking every blind spot.
""Where does this tunnel lead?"" Julian demanded, grabbing Helena’s trembling chin and forcing her to look at him.
""The old boat house,"" she sobbed, terror completely stripping away her aristocratic demeanor. ""It connects to the private dock through the sea cave. There’s a launch moored there.""
""Move,"" Julian commanded.
Julian shoved Dominic ahead of him, using his weapon light to navigate the damp, subterranean stone tunnel carved directly out of the coastal bedrock. The air was cold, thick with the salty roar of the crashing waves outside.
Behind them, the metal hatch of the service shaft was kicked open. A flashlight beam pierced the gloom of the tunnel.
""Targets spotted in the lower sector. Free to engage,"" a cold, foreign voice echoed down the stone corridor.
Julian turned, firing three rapid rounds back toward the opening to force the pursuers into cover. Sparks ricocheted off the damp rock. He dragged Dominic along the slippery catwalk as they broke out into the cavernous sea dock.
Moored in the churning black water was a customized rigid-hulled inflatable boat (RHIB) powered by twin outboards. But the dock was already compromised; two gray-suited mercenaries had rappelled down the exterior cliff face and stood on the wooden jetty, rifles raised to cut them down.
""Get down!"" Julian yelled, shoving Helena behind a stack of wooden crates.
He exposed himself from the tunnel mouth, his Kimber barking twice. The first mercenary took a round through the throat and tumbled into the churning black water. But the second shooter returned fire with a blistering burst from an MPX.
Bullets splintered the wooden crates. Julian felt a burning line of white-hot fire tear across his left ribs as a round grazed his flesh. He adjusted his aim, holding the weapon in a two-handed combat grip despite the blinding pain, and placed a clean shot through the second operative’s visor.
The second man collapsed onto the dock, his rifle sliding into the water.
Julian staggered forward, his hand pressed against his bleeding side. Dominic collapsed onto the wooden planks, his skin turning pale gray from blood loss.
""Julian..."" Dominic wheezed, looking out at the raging storm over the open ocean. ""They have... satellite tracking on the boat. You won't make the mainland.""
Julian ignored him, tossing Helena into the boat before leaning down to pull Dominic aboard. But as he reached for Dominic’s belt, his tactical phone buzzed violently in his vest pocket.
It was an encrypted ping from Vance’s emergency frequency.
May you like
Julian thumbed the receiver. ""Vance, talk to me.""
Static roared through the speaker, followed by the terrifying sound of automatic gunfire and Vance’s ragged, dying voice: ""Julian... they found the safehouse... they took the girl... they took Maya...""
