Chapter 8 - The Confrontation on Route 9
I scrambled to the rusted iron hatch built into the stone foundation of the cabin. The heavy padlock was secured, but the silver key slipped into the tumblers with a sharp, satisfying click.
I ripped the padlock off, threw back the heavy steel doors, and shouted down into the pitch-black cellar: "Sarah! Sarah, it's David!"
A gasping sob answered from the darkness. "David?! Oh God, David!"
I pulled a small flashlight from my pocket and aimed the beam down the wooden ladder.
Sarah was curled on the damp dirt floor, her wrists zip-tied behind her back to an iron support pillar. Her face was bruised, her lip split, and her clothes torn and covered in cobwebs, but her eyes—wide, terrified, and filled with tears—were alive.
I vaulted down the ladder, hitting the dirt floor hard, and whipped out my pocket knife. With two quick slices, I severed the heavy plastic zip ties around her wrists and ankles.
Sarah threw her arms around my neck, sobbing hysterically into my shoulder, her body shaking just as Emily’s had hours before. "David... Emily... where is Emily? Did he hurt her?!"
"Emily is safe, Sarah! She's with the police! She told me how to find you!" I pulled her to her feet, supporting her weight as she stumbled toward the ladder. "Can you climb?"
"Yes! Yes, I can!"
Above us, the cabin floorboards shook violently as the firefight reached a desperate climax. A heavy body slammed against the wood directly overhead, followed by the sound of breaking glass and a man howling in fury.
Marcus had jumped through the rear window.
Before Sarah could reach the second rung of the ladder, a pair of muddy boots dropped through the open cellar hatchway, landing six feet in front of us.
Marcus Cole stood there, drenched in rain, his face blackened by soot from the flashbang grenade. Blood was pouring from a graze wound on his forehead, his dark eyes wide and completely deranged. He held a heavy tactical combat knife in his right hand, the blade glinting in the beam of my flashlight.
"You really thought you could play hero, accountant?" Marcus sneered, his breath coming in ragged, bloody wheezes. "You took my money. You took my freedom. None of us are leaving this hole."
"Get behind me, Sarah," I commanded, stepping between the monster and my ex-wife, holding the pocket knife with a white-knuckled grip.
"David, look out!" Sarah screamed.
Marcus lunged forward with terrifying speed, slashing the heavy blade horizontally across my chest. I jerked backward, the steel slicing clean through my heavy canvas jacket, barely missing my sternum. The momentum carried Marcus into me, tackling me to the damp dirt floor.
The flashlight flew from my hand, rolling into a puddle, casting wild, rotating shadows across the stone walls.
Marcus's heavy fingers clamped around my throat, cutting off my air, the blade descending toward my neck with crushing force. "Where is the drive?!" he hissed into my face, his spit spraying across my cheeks. "TELL ME WHERE IT IS!"
My vision began to tunnel into blackness. My lungs burned for oxygen. I grabbed his wrist with both hands, using every ounce of strength I had left to hold the sharp tip of the knife inches from my throat, but his weight was overwhelming.
Suddenly, a heavy cast-iron pipe slammed against the back of Marcus’s skull with a sickening, hollow clang.
Marcus groaned, his grip slackening, his eyes rolling back in shock.
Sarah stood over him, holding the rusted water pipe with both hands, her teeth bared in primal fury. "GET AWAY FROM MY HUSBAND!"
She swung the pipe again, striking his shoulder and sending him sprawling into the mud.
Air flooded back into my lungs with a ragged gasp. I rolled over, kicked Marcus’s knife away across the floor, and tackled him face-down into the dirt, driving my knee directly between his shoulder blades.
Before he could recover, three tactical SWAT officers leaped down through the hatch, pinning Marcus to the ground with assault rifles leveled at his temple.
"DON'T MOVE! DON'T MOVE OR YOU'RE DEAD!"
Reynolds dropped down behind them, his service weapon drawn, his breathing heavy as he looked at the restrained fugitive.
"Marcus Cole," Reynolds panted, pulling out a pair of heavy steel handcuffs and ratcheting them tightly around the con man’s wrists. "You are under arrest for attempted murder, kidnapping, aggravated assault, and federal wire fraud. Shut your mouth before I give you a reason to resist."
I collapsed back against the cellar wall, covered in mud and blood, panting heavily.
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Sarah fell to her knees beside me, wrapping her arms around my neck, burying her face into my chest and weeping tears of pure, unadulterated relief.
"It's over, Sarah," I whispered, holding her tightly as the tactical lights filled the cellar with bright, clear light. "It's over."
