Chapter 6 - The Long Corridor
The sound of gunfire shattered the silence of the lower floor. It was not a chaotic firefight; it was an execution. Calvin’s men were systematically neutralizing the loyalist gate guards who refused to turn their coats. Shouts echoed up the grand staircase, followed by the dry, muffled clatter of suppressed automatic weapons.
“Two minutes,” Vincent whispered, checking the magazine of his Kimber .45. “They will sweep the ground floor first, then establish a kill zone at both ends of the east and west corridors. If they pin us here, they’ll burn the wing.”
“The coal tunnel,” Maggie insisted. “The entrance is behind the old furnace in the east laundry. But the only way down without using the central stairs is the service dumbwaiter shaft or the linen staircase.”
“The linen staircase is narrow,” Vincent said, moving toward the side door. “One man can hold it. You go first.”
“I’m not leaving you behind to have another seizure halfway down the steps,” Maggie retorted, matching his stride. “You take point. You have the gun you actually know how to shoot.”
They slipped into the narrow, wood-paneled servant corridor behind the master bedroom. The walls here were bare plaster, smelling of cedar and old dust. Every few seconds, the building shuddered with the impact of breaching charges below. Vincent moved with feline silence, his weapon held high, his breathing controlled despite the poison still lingering in his bloodstream.
As they reached the top of the spiral iron staircase leading to the laundry cellar, a beam of high-powered tactical light cut through the gloom.
“Hold!” a voice barked.
It was Frank Delaney, accompanied by two tactical shooters in black combat vests. Frank had a shotgun leveled at the landing.
“End of the line, boss!” Frank yelled, his voice echoing off the iron steps. “Calvin wants you alive enough to sign the transfer of deed! The cleaner dies right here!”
Before Frank could pull the trigger, Vincent didn't duck—he leaned into the line of fire, firing three shots in blindingly rapid succession. The heavy .45 rounds punched through the drywall beside Frank’s head, shattering the plaster and showering the shooters with blinding dust.
The two shooters opened fire, tearing the wooden banister to splinters. Vincent grabbed Maggie by the jacket, shoving her behind the brick corner of the laundry chute as buckshot ripped through the empty air where she had stood a second before.
“Stay down!” Vincent commanded.
Maggie peeked around the corner. She saw a heavy five-gallon container of industrial floor stripper sitting on the top shelf above the spiral stairs—a highly concentrated alkaline solution she had placed there yesterday. Beside it lay an open utility torch used for sweating copper pipes.
She didn’t hesitate. She threw her weight against the wooden shelving unit.
The heavy unit tipped, dumping thirty pounds of caustic industrial chemicals down the narrow iron stairwell, cascading directly onto the two tactical shooters climbing the steps. The alkaline fumes and blinding fluid hit their eyes and exposed necks. The men screamed in agony, dropping their weapons to claw at their burning skin.
Frank stumbled backward, slipping on the slick, chemical-coated iron steps, tumbling violently down the entire flight of stairs, his shotgun clattering harmlessly against the concrete floor below.
Vincent looked at the burning wreckage of the stairwell, then at Maggie, who was still dusting plaster from her shoulders.
May you like
“Miss Callahan,” Vincent murmured, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“Save the compliments,” Maggie said, stepping over the puddle. “We have an exit to reach before Calvin realizes his hit squad got taken out by cleaning supplies.”
