Chapter 6 - The Fire and the Trap
The heavy back pantry door clicked shut as Marcus ushered Grace into the blackness of the cellar tunnel. I stood alone in the center of the dark cabin, the cold draft whistling through the floorboards.
Outside, heavy combat boots crunched over the crust of frozen snow. Three men approached the front porch, while a fourth moved around the perimeter toward the back.
I picked up the heavy iron fireplace poker from the hearth, weighing it in my hand, and walked deliberately to the center of the living room. I pulled a wooden chair out, sat down facing the front door, and struck a single wooden match, lighting the kerosene lamp on the table beside me.
The front door was kicked off its frame with a thunderous splintering crash.
Two men stepped into the cabin, dressed in tactical winter gear, their faces obscured by balaclavas. Behind them stepped a third figure—tall, immaculately dressed in a cashmere trench coat, unaffected by the freezing mountain air.
It was Julian Vance. Vanessa’s older brother and the chief operating officer of Vance Capital.
""Richard,"" Julian said, his voice dripping with condescending amusement as he brushed snow from his shoulders. ""I must say, sitting in the dark with a fire iron is a bit melodramatic, even for a fallen titan like you.""
""Julian,"" I said smoothly, not rising from the chair. ""I see you brought your personal cleanup crew. Does your father know you're running wet work in the Adirondacks, or did Vanessa cry to you directly after I threw her out of my office?""
Julian's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating sneer. ""Vanessa is ambitious, but she’s clumsy. She should have made sure Grace never left St. Jude’s alive two months ago. Now, thanks to your little internal audit, the entire Vance network is exposed. Do you have any idea what federal prosecutors would do with those clinical transfer logs?""
""They'd put your father in a federal penitentiary for the rest of his miserable life,"" I replied coldly. ""And you right beside him as an accessory to attempted murder.""
""Which is precisely why neither you nor Grace can leave this mountain,"" Julian stated flatly. He glanced at the two armed men beside him. ""Where is she, Richard? We know she didn't walk back to town in this blizzard.""
""She’s somewhere you will never reach,"" I said.
Julian sighed, signaling with a slight flick of his gloved fingers. ""Search the house. Burn it when you're done. Make sure Hayes dies of smoke inhalation—let the coroners think he came up here to commit suicide over his ruined marriage.""
The first gunman raised a suppressed tactical pistol and stepped toward me.
I didn't wait.
I kicked the small wooden table with all my strength, sending the lit kerosene lamp flying directly into the gunman's chest. The glass shattered, and the fuel ignited instantly against his nylon tactical vest, turning him into a screaming column of flame.
He stumbled backward, thrashing wildly, knocking violently into the second operative.
I surged forward from the chair, swinging the heavy cast-iron poker with every ounce of rage, guilt, and fury that had been building inside my chest for sixteen years. The iron connected squarely with the side of the second gunman’s tactical helmet with a dull, sickening crack, dropping him to the floorboards.
Julian yelled in shock, reaching inside his trench coat for a weapon.
I lunged across the burning rug, tackling Julian around the waist. We crashed hard into the rotting dining table, splintering the aged wood. Julian slammed an elbow into my cheekbone, splitting the skin, but I didn't feel it. I had spent years sitting in leather executive chairs growing soft, but the primitive instinct to protect my wife and unborn child ignited a terrifying adrenaline rush.
I pinned his arm against the floor, my hands clamping around his throat.
""You tried to poison my child,"" I snarled into his face, the flames from the rug casting wild, dancing shadows across his terrified eyes. ""You gave my wife an abortifacient.""
""It... it was Vanessa's idea!"" Julian choked out, his hands clawing at my wrists as his face turned purple. ""She wanted the Hayes estate! She orchestrated the clinic transfer!""
""And you brought the matches,"" I growled.
Suddenly, a loud report echoed through the room. A searing line of fire ripped through my left shoulder. The wind was knocked out of me, and I collapsed sideways onto the floorboards, clutching my bleeding arm.
The first gunman had managed to strip off his burning jacket. His face was scorched, his eyes wild with pain, and his smoking weapon was leveled directly at my head.
""Die, you bastard,"" the man wheezed, his finger tightening on the trigger.
A deafening double crack shattered the room.
May you like
The gunman’s chest jerked twice, and he collapsed forward onto the burning floorboards like a sack of wet cement.
Standing in the doorway of the pantry, framed by the growing smoke, stood Marcus Cole. And behind him, clutching a heavy hunting rifle that had been mounted above the cellar door, was Grace.
