Chapter 8 - The Stand on the Staircase
The air in the hallway was an unbreathable fog of pulverized drywall, steam from the truck's radiator, and the sharp, chemical stench of deployed airbags.
"Sheriff's department! Drop the weapon!" Detective Vance’s roar was answered instantly by the deafening, staccato chatter of the submachine gun.
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
Nine-millimeter rounds tore through the hallway drywall at waist height, blowing jagged holes through the plaster, splintering the linen closet door three inches above my head. The concussive blast in the enclosed space was physical, battering my eardrums until a high-pitched, permanent ringing replaced all sound.
From the shattered front room, Agent Ramos returned fire with her Glock, three measured, rapid shots: BANG. BANG. BANG.
Two rounds struck David’s heavy ceramic chest plate with dull, metallic thuds, staggering him backward against the hood of the steaming truck, but he didn't go down. He dropped the empty magazine with his thumb, slapped a fresh curved clip into the receiver with the heel of his bloody palm, and lunged forward through the ruined doorway.
He wasn't a technician anymore. He moved with the brutal, mechanical efficiency of a professional contractor trained to execute high-value asset recoveries in hostile territory.
"You're out of time, Vance!" David shouted, his voice hoarse, venomous. "The state police are three minutes out! You have three dead deputies at the highway intersection! Give me the drive or I level this house with incendiaries!"
I didn't think. The paralyzing terror that had frozen my limbs since three in the morning vanished, burned away by a sudden, feral motherly fury that made my vision turn red at the edges.
Beneath me, through the vibrating floorboards, my six-year-old daughter was locked in a dark fruit cellar with an elderly woman, listening to automatic gunfire shred the ceiling above her head.
I rolled onto my knees, ignoring the jagged shards of window glass digging through my jeans into my kneecaps.
Beside the grandfather clock in the corner of the hall stood Arthur Henderson's antique walking stick—a heavy, three-foot length of solid hickory topped with a solid brass knob the size of a billiard ball.
I reached out, wrapped both hands around the smooth, heavy wood, and pulled myself upright in the cloud of white dust.
"David!" I screamed, stepping out into the ruined center of the hallway, directly into his line of sight.
Through the swirling plaster dust, our eyes met.
He froze. For a fraction of a second, the mask flickered. His mouth parted slightly, the ghost of the man who had sat at my kitchen table, who had buttered my toast, who had asked me if my knee felt better after the garden work, peered through the eyes of the monster with the gun.
"Emily," he breathed, lowering the barrel by two inches. "Step away from the wall. Just tell them where it is. We can walk out of here. The company has a plane waiting at the private airstrip in Wausau. I can protect you. I can protect Lily."
"You never protected us," I said, my voice dead, flat, carrying the cold weight of a grave being filled. "You were just waiting to kill us."
"I was doing my job!" he screamed, his face twisting into an ugly, manic snarl. "Robert was a traitor! He stole forty million dollars of sovereign intellectual property! That code belongs to the people who paid for it!"
"He didn't steal it for money, David," a voice boomed from the shattered front porch.
Deputy Miller rose from the wreckage of the bay window, his uniform torn, blood dripping from his scalp, the Remington twelve-gauge shotgun leveled squarely at the center of David’s unprotected throat.
"He stole it because he found out what your company was going to do with it," Miller shouted. "Drop the weapon, Miller, or whatever your real damn name is! Drop it now!"
David didn't drop the gun.
With the terrifying, suicidal speed of a cornered operative who knew that a federal penitentiary was worse than a bullet, he swung the MP5's muzzle toward the deputy.
He never cleared the shot.
I didn't scream. I didn't hesitate.
I took two lunging steps across the broken floorboards and brought the solid brass knob of Arthur's hickory cane down with every ounce of leverage, every ounce of rage, and every ounce of maternal hatred in my body.
The heavy brass struck the side of his skull just behind the right ear with a sickening, hollow CRACK.
David’s head snapped sideways. His eyes rolled upward into his head, the submachine gun slipping from his fingers to clatter harmlessly across the splintered floorboards.
He stumbled forward, his boots tangling in the torn lace curtains, and collapsed face-first onto the ruined Persian rug of Arthur’s living room, motionless.
Deputy Miller didn't wait. He crossed the floor in two heavy strides, drove his knee into the small of David’s back, and ratcheted a pair of heavy steel handcuffs around his bloody wrists with two loud, mechanical clicks.
"Target secured," Miller gasped into his radio, his breath coming in ragged, bloody wheezes. "Target secured at fourteen-twelve Whispering Pines. Send the medics. Send the meat wagon."
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I dropped the hickory stick. It clattered against the floor, rolling to a stop against the bumper of the truck that had plowed through my life.
I turned around, fell to my knees in the hallway dust, and began to crawl toward the basement door.
