Chapter 7 - Ambush at the Carriage House
"Hold the stairs!" Vance screamed into his radio, pulling me behind the heavy steel door of the fallout shelter. "We have a secure asset and primary evidence in the basement!"
The gunfire above grew deafening. Heavy boots thundered across the carriage house floor directly over our heads.
"They aren't here for Vivian," I realized out loud, my pulse hammering in my ears. "The buyers... the people who bought those children. If this ledger reaches a courtroom, international law enforcement will dismantle their entire network across Europe and South America."
"They aren't getting this ledger," Vance said grimly, reaching into his vest and pulling out an extra magazine for his Glock. "Clara, stay behind this steel door. No matter what happens, do not move."
"Marcus, wait!" I called out, pointing to the wall behind him.
Mounted on the concrete brick was an old, rusted iron lever labeled EMERGENCY VENTILATION / DUST SHUTTER. My father had installed it to seal the shelter against external gas or smoke.
"If they toss grenades down those stairs, the blast wave will kill you," I told him. "Pull that lever. It drops an armored steel plate over the staircase entrance."
Vance looked at the heavy iron lever, then at the staircase.
High-caliber bullets ripped through the wooden floorboards above us. A tactical officer tumbled backward down the concrete steps, bleeding from his shoulder. Vance caught him, dragging him into the shelter room.
At the top of the stairs, a figure dressed in tactical gear and a black balaclava appeared, raising a suppressed submachine gun.
Vance fired three rapid shots up the staircase—BANG! BANG! BANG!—forcing the gunman to dive back behind the brick doorway.
"Pull it!" I shouted.
Vance lunged across the room, grabbed the rusted iron lever with both hands, and slammed it down with all his body weight.
CLANG-CRUNCH!
A massive, two-inch-thick steel shutter dropped from the ceiling frame above the staircase, slamming into the concrete floor with a deafening crash, sealing us inside the subterranean vault.
Silence fell over the basement, save for the heavy breathing of the wounded agent and the thrum of our own heartbeats.
The mercenaries above pounded furiously against the thick steel plate, but the Cold War bunker held firm.
Ten minutes later, the muffled sound of heavy police sirens echoed through the ground above. The FBI backup teams had arrived. The gunfire ceased as the mercenaries were surrounded and cut down in the driveway.
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We were safe. The ledger was safe.
And Vivian Hale’s last line of defense had completely failed.
