Chapter 7 - Smoke and Shrapnel
The air inside the hallway tasted of copper, cordite, and pulverized drywall. I sprinted low past the splintered doorframes, my rebuilt knee screaming in protest with every stride, but I forced the joint to hold. Behind me, Marshal Vance and his team laid down a blinding wall of suppressive rifle fire, chewing up the living room walls to keep the enemy sniper pinned.
I kicked open the warped back screen door, sending the rusted mesh flying into the overgrown grass, and dropped off the porch into the muddy trench below.
The root cellar doors—heavy wooden panels covered in rotting moss—were locked with a simple iron hasp. I didn't bother looking for a key. I drove the heel of my combat boot hard against the rusted padlock bracket, snapping the iron anchor on the second strike. The doors flew open with a hollow, echoing groan, revealing a pitch-black staircase descending into damp earth.
“Move, move, move!” I shouted back toward the porch.
Marshal Vance and two agents scrambled off the wooden deck, sliding down the muddy embankment one by one and tumbling into the dark opening of the cellar. I pulled the heavy wooden doors shut above us just as another high-caliber round slammed into the dirt mound beside the foundation, showering us in loose soil and stones.
We plunged into total darkness, the air smelling of wet brick and old roots. I flicked on the small tactical flashlight clipped to my collar, its narrow beam cutting through the gloom to reveal the narrow brick-lined tunnel stretching into the hillside.
“Where does this go?” Vance panted, pressing his back against the damp brick wall as he reloaded his service pistol.
“Out toward the old creek bed,” I said, leading the way with my hand resting on my sidearm. “Fifty yards past the property fence, right behind where that van is parked.”
“You’re planning to flank an armed sniper team with a pistol?” Vance stared at me in disbelief.
“I’m a Navy SEAL, Marshal,” I replied coldly, not slowing my pace. “Outflanking superior firepower is what we do when the front door gets blown off its hinges.”
We moved in silent, synchronized tactical formation through the damp subterranean culvert, the sound of our boots splashing against the shallow puddles muffled by the thick earth above. As we approached the iron drainage grate at the far end of the tunnel, the deep, rumbling idle of a heavy diesel engine vibrated through the stone floor.
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They were still out there. And they were getting ready to move.
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