Chapter 8 - The Fifteen-Minute Clock
"Gas!" Cole barked, dropping down the stairs instantly.
A faint, sickly sweet scent of mercaptan—the chemical additive put in natural gas—was already beginning to seep down through the cracks in the ceiling.
"Where's the hammer?!" Cole shouted, shining his light around the concrete floor.
"It’s up on the top step!" I yelled, grabbing the iron sledgehammer from where I had dropped it when the lights went out.
"Give it to me!"
Cole snatched the twelve-pound hammer, stood on the third step, angled his posture, and drove the iron head into the concrete wall directly adjacent to the armoire frame.
CLANG!
Sparks flew in the dark. A shower of grey dust covered our faces, but the concrete block only showed a tiny white chip.
"It’s reinforced block!" Cole gasped, wiping sweat from his eyes. "We won't break through before the gas fills the hallway!"
"The safe!" I screamed, pointing to the open steel box on the desk. "Is there anything in there?!"
Cole dropped the hammer, lunging for the safe. He reached his gloved hand deep into the back compartment, pulling out a heavy steel box labeled EMERGENCY ACCESS / OVERRIDE.
Inside was a heavy brass key, a satellite phone, and a small, heavy black remote control with a single red toggle switch.
"What's the remote for?" I asked, my lungs beginning to burn as the air in the narrow room grew thick with gas fumes.
Cole looked at the toggle switch, then at the thick conduit pipe running along the concrete ceiling toward the foundation wall. "It’s a secondary ventilation breach. High-end panic rooms have blast vents to prevent suffocation!"
He slammed his thumb down on the red toggle.
HEAVY METALLIC CLANK.
Above our heads, a ten-inch steel plate in the corner of the concrete wall retracted with a hiss of pneumatic pressure. Fresh, freezing October air poured into the room, cutting through the toxic fumes like a blade.
I fell to my knees, coughing violently, taking deep gulps of the cold air.
"The vent opens into the window well on the east side of the house," Cole said, shining his light up into the narrow metal shaft. It was small—barely eighteen inches wide—but it led directly outside. "Go, Hannah! Crawl through!"
"What about you?!"
"I’m six-foot-four, I won't fit through an eighteen-inch duct!" Cole said, grabbing my waist and lifting me toward the opening. "Crawl out, get to my cruiser, grab the shotgun from the rack, and blow the lock off the front door from the outside!"
I didn't argue. I pulled myself into the narrow steel vent, dragging my body forward through the dark, cold pipe using my elbows and knees. The metal scraped against my skin, but I didn't feel the pain. All I could see was Lily’s face in the hospital bed. All I could hear was Ryan’s voice lying to me about a dead wife.
Ten seconds later, my head broke out into the crisp, cold air of the exterior window well.
I pushed the plastic drain cover aside, scrambled up onto the wet lawn, and collapsed onto the grass beneath the pine trees.
A set of bright halogen headlights swung into the driveway.
A black SUV pulled up to the front steps.
The driver’s side door opened. Ryan stepped out, holding a heavy leather duffel bag, his eyes wild and bloodshot under the driveway lights.
Beside him, coming out from the front porch, was Diane.
"Did you secure the basement?" Ryan shouted to his mother, his voice shrill with manic adrenaline.
"They're inside, Ryan," Diane said, her voice smooth and triumphant. "The gas is filling the hallway. In five minutes, the whole house will go up. It will look like a gas leak explosion caused by the damaged furnace."
Ryan nodded frantically, reaching into his pocket for a set of keys. "Good. Good. The plane is waiting at the private hangar in Waukegan. I have Sarah’s international passport. We take her from Pine Crest tonight and fly to Costa Rica before the court registers the bail breach."
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I stood up from the wet grass behind the bushes, my eyes locked on the man I had loved for four years.
"You're not going to Costa Rica, Ryan," I said.
