Chapter 12 - The Underground Sprint
""Judge, wait! You can't leave the perimeter!"" Miller shouted, struggling to maintain control of both a thrashing Vincent and a weeping Eleanor while reaching for his radio. ""SWAT is still securing the plaza! You'll run straight into the hot zone!""
Clara didn't stop. She didn't look back. The long black robe trailed behind her like a torn battle standard before she reached down and ripped the silk hem, tearing the fabric up to her knees to allow her legs to move freely. In her bare, stockinged feet, running on grit and concrete, she hit the metal emergency exit door and plunged down the narrow concrete stairwell leading to the subterranean levels.
Every breath tore at her lungs. The image of Maya, smiling, resting her hand over her swollen belly in the sunlit kitchen in Oak Ridge, flashed across Clara's mind with terrifying clarity. If anything happened to Maya, there would be no justice left in the world—only vengeance.
She hit the basement floor. The heavy fire door burst open to reveal the subterranean parking garage, bathed in sickly yellow emergency light. The smell of gasoline and damp concrete hung heavy in the stagnant air.
Ahead, parked in the designated judicial stall, was her armored Crown Victoria. But fifty yards away, near the security gate, stood a lone figure in dark civilian clothes, carrying a bulky Pelican case.
The sniper. He hadn't been on the clock tower—he had fired through a relay from the upper parking ramp, and now he was escaping through the sewer access tunnels.
The man turned, noticing Clara charging across the concrete. Without a word, he dropped the Pelican case and drew an automatic sidearm from his hip.
Clara didn't seek cover behind a pillar. She didn't hesitate. She remembered the target practice her father had made her endure every Sunday morning at the county range after her mother died. Don't shoot where they are, Clara. Shoot where they have to go.
She raised Miller’s spare Glock with both hands, planting her feet on the oil-stained concrete.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Three rapid shots thundered in the confined subterranean cavern. The muzzle flashes illuminated the dark parking garage like lightning strikes.
The assassin stumbled back, a round punching straight through his collarbone. His gun clattered against the pavement as he collapsed against the chain-link gate of the maintenance bay, groaning in agony.
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Clara didn't check on him. She sprinted to her car, jammed her master key into the ignition, and brought the eight-cylinder engine roaring to life.
Cliffhanger: As the heavy reinforced gate swung open, her headlights illuminated a white utility van idling at the end of the alleyway, blocking the only exit.
