Chapter 8 - THE BASEMENT DOOR
We crossed the dark lawn between the two properties like shadows. The wind had picked up, howling through the tall pines, masking the sound of our footsteps as we approached the rear deck of the Vance house.
The wooden latch on the screen door was still broken from my frantic escape fifteen minutes ago.
Miller moved with terrifying efficiency. He stayed low below the deck railing, his Glock held in a two-handed tactical grip, his eyes scanning the dimly lit kitchen windows.
Inside, the light was still on.
The heavy stone mortar sat on the island counter, surrounding by dried drops of dark blood. The yellow rubber glove lay crumpled near the sink. But the room was empty. The baby’s cries had stopped completely.
Miller signaled with two fingers, then pointed to the basement storm doors built into the side of the house’s foundation.
We crept down the side lawn. The heavy iron doors were slightly unlatched—a thin line of yellow light cutting through the damp grass.
From deep below the concrete foundation, a muffled, raspy voice carried up through the iron doors.
"...told you to get the tag off before five o'clock!" a man growled. It wasn't Mark. The voice was older, heavier, rough with years of tobacco. "The transport driver is waiting at the gravel pit! If that tracking signal pinged a federal tower, we're all dead!"
"I tried!" Brenda’s frantic voice wailed from below. "The nanny walked in! She saw the colander! She hit me!"
"Where is the nanny now?" the old man’s voice barked.
"Mark took care of her," Brenda spat. "She's running through the woods like a rat. Mark called his brother to set up a perimeter on the main road."
"Mark is an idiot!" the old man snapped. "His brother can't protect us from a federal SWAT team! Give me the child!"
A sharp, high-pitched newborn cry shattered the subterranean silence. Leo was awake again.
Miller caught my eye in the darkness. He held up three fingers, counting down. 3... 2... 1...
Miller kicked the heavy iron storm doors open with a deafening CRACK!
"FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" Miller bellowed, plunging down the steep concrete stairs into the basement with his tactical light cutting through the shadows!
I followed right behind him, staying low against the damp brick wall.
The basement was a vast, unlit concrete cellar filled with wooden storage crates and old furniture. In the center, under a single hanging lightbulb, stood four people.
Brenda was cowering near a support beam, holding the swaddled baby. Mark stood near a metal workbench, holding a heavy crowbar.
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And standing directly in front of them was an older man in a expensive leather coat—Victor Moretti, the senior lieutenant of the Chicago syndicate.
Moretti didn't hesitate. He drew a silenced pistol from his coat jacket and fired three rapid shots straight toward the stairs!
