I had twelve candles left. That was all. Twelve candles, one silver lighter, and a dining room full of people pretending not to

(Word count: ~1500 words)

The dark armored SUV roared down the rain-soaked highway toward Gary, Indiana, its engine screaming as it wove through traffic at ninety miles per hour.

I sat in the front passenger seat, my seatbelt pulled tight, holding a digital tablet that displayed the live CCTV security feed from the Gary shipping terminal.

Against Luca's strict orders, I had refused to stay behind at the estate. I knew the Gary docks better than anyone—my father had worked as a warehouse electrician there for twenty years before his retirement. I knew every sub-basement tunnel, every emergency exit, and every blind spot in the security cameras.

Luca sat behind the wheel, his knuckles white against the leather steering wheel, a heavy pistol holstered at his chest.

"The warehouse feed just went dark," I reported, staring at the glitching screen. "Rossi's men cut the main power grid to Terminal 3."

"They're trying to destroy the physical manifest ledgers before the federal marshals arrive," Luca said, his voice flat and deadly. "Agent Miller from the FBI is ten minutes behind us with a tactical unit, but if Rossi sets fire to the vault, the physical paper trails are gone."

"Terminal 3 has a backup diesel generator in the lower boiler room," I said quickly, zooming in on the blueprint schematic on my tablet. "If we hit the manual override switch in the boiler room, the emergency floodlights and security cameras will turn back on, streaming live footage directly to Agent Miller's server."

Luca glanced at me, his gray eyes full of fierce pride and intense concern. "The boiler room is two levels below ground, Julia. If Rossi’s men catch you down there—"

"They won't catch me," I said firmly, holding his gaze. "My father took me down into those boiler rooms every summer when I was a teenager. I know the layout better than Rossi's gunmen ever will."

Luca reached over, his large hand wrapping around mine, squeezing tightly. "You stay behind me until we reach the side access door. The moment I draw their fire, you run for the boiler room. Clear?"

"Clear," I nodded.

Five minutes later, our SUV smashed through the rusted chain-link gates of Terminal 3, coming to a sliding stop behind a stack of heavy steel shipping containers.

The rain was pouring down in thick sheets. Smoke billowed from the upper windows of the main administrative building fifty yards away, filling the air with the harsh smell of burning paper and gasoline.

Three dark sedans were parked near the loading dock. Six armed men wearing rain ponchos were throwing jerrycans of fuel against the wooden doors of the central vault.

Standing near the main stairs, wearing a thick leather trench coat and holding a silver-plated revolver, was Hector Rossi.

And standing right beside him, holding an umbrella over his head, was Vanessa Bellini.

"They're already setting the fires!" I whispered frantically from inside the SUV.

Luca unholstered his weapon, racking the slide with a sharp, mechanical CLACK.

"When I open this door, run for the east service hatch," Luca instructed, his voice dropping into a deep, protective tone. "Be careful, Julia."

"You too," I whispered back.

Luca slammed his door open and stepped out into the pouring rain.

"ROSSI!" Luca’s roar echoed across the concrete yard like thunder.

Hector Rossi and his men spun around in shock.

"Moretti!" Rossi sneered, raising his silver revolver. "You're too late! By the time your federal friends get here, your entire paper trail will be ash!"

"Shoot him!" Vanessa screamed from under her umbrella, pointing at Luca. "Kill him now!"

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Gunfire erupted across the shipping yard. Luca lunged behind a heavy steel shipping container, returning fire with lethal precision, taking down two of Rossi’s guards within seconds.

Taking advantage of the utter chaos, I slipped out of the passenger door and sprinted low through the rain toward the metal service hatch on the side of the building.

I pulled open the heavy iron hatch and plunged down the narrow metal staircase into the dark sub-basement.

The air below was thick with the smell of rust, damp concrete, and oil. I pulled out my phone, turning on the flashlight beam, and sprinted down the narrow corridor toward the boiler room.

I reached the heavy red door marked BOILER ROOM 3.

I threw the door open. The massive diesel generator sat in the center of the dark room, cold and silent. I rushed over to the control panel, my fingers flying across the switches.

PUMP 1 — ON. FUEL LINE — OPEN. IGNITION — ENGAGED.

I slammed my hand down onto the large yellow manual override lever.

CHUG-CHUG-CHUG-ROAR!

The massive diesel engine roared to life with a deafening hum. High-voltage halogen floodlights flickered on across the entire sub-basement and the upper shipping yard.

Above ground, loud sirens began to wail as the automated security feed re-established its connection, beaming live, high-definition video of Rossi's men holding weapons and jerrycans straight to the FBI field office downtown.

"YES!" I shouted happily.

"I wouldn't celebrate just yet, maid."

A cold, familiar voice spoke from the dark doorway behind me.