Chapter 7 - The Iron Net
“Move!” Julian shouted, grabbing my arm and hauling me toward the cellar stairs with frantic urgency.
“Wait, what about Ethan?” I called out, glancing back at my ex-husband, who was still struggling to untie his legs from the heavy hemp ropes.
“Let him rot,” Julian snarled, but even as he said it, he fired two precise shots from his pistol, snapping the ropes binding Ethan’s ankles to the chair. “If he wants to survive the next ten minutes, he can crawl behind us.”
We scrambled up the rotting wooden steps of the brownstone, bursting out into the freezing midnight mist of the Upper West Side. The tactical SUV Julian’s security detail had arrived in was still parked curbside, but its front tires had been systematically slashed, hissing softly as thick plumes of air escaped into the pavement.
“Ambush!” Vance yelled from the driver’s seat, ducking as a volley of suppressed gunfire chewed through the brick facade above our heads. Splinters of ancient stone rained down on our shoulders like deadly hail.
“Get down!” Julian threw me flat against the side of the building, using his own body as a shield while returning fire toward the dark alleyway across the street where muzzle flashes flickered in the shadows.
“They’re cutting off our communications!” Vance shouted over the din of gunfire, smashing his fist against the dashboard console as the tablet screen flickered and died. “Local cellular towers are being jammed by an EMP relay. We’re completely offline!”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My babies. Aria, Chloe, and Grace were trapped in a penthouse that had just been overrun by a private army loyal to a woman who had faked her own death.
“Julian, we can’t wait for backup,” I gasped, my voice sharpening into an edge of pure, desperate adrenaline as I grabbed his tactical vest. “If they’ve jammed the network, the penthouse security grid is completely isolated. We have to go through the service tunnels.”
Ethan stumbled out of the brownstone doorway behind us, coughing and clutching his bruised ribs, his face pale with terror. “What service tunnels? What are you talking about?”
“The old New York steam tunnels,” Julian said, his eyes locking onto mine with grim realization. “They run directly underneath Riverside Drive all the way to the midtown grid. It’s a mile-long crawl through freezing subterranean filth, but it’s the only way to bypass their street blockade.”
“Let’s move,” I said, not hesitating for a single second.
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We sprinted down the narrow concrete stairwell leading into the municipal storm drain beneath the brownstone, the sound of approaching tactical boots echoing loudly behind us in the misty night air.
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