Chapter 3 - The Gas
Elias didn't even get the chance to pull his trigger.
I fired a single round directly into the center of his forehead.
The heavy thud of his body hitting the tiles echoed through the silent mansion.
I walked over to my former security chief and crouched down beside his body.
I reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cheap burner phone.
The screen was glowing with a newly received text message.
"The doctor is dead, release the gas into the study."
A cold spike of pure terror drove itself directly into my heart.
Mia, the baby, and Clara were locked inside the study wall.
I dropped the phone and sprinted down the hallway faster than I ever had in my life.
I threw open the heavy oak doors of my office.
The room was filled with a thick, acrid green smoke pouring from the ceiling vents.
I held my breath and rushed to the bookcase, frantically searching for the hidden button.
I pressed the mechanism, and the heavy wooden shelves slid open.
I aimed my flashlight into the darkness, expecting to find them suffocated on the floor.
Instead, I found Clara standing on the rusted iron cot.
She was holding a bloody kitchen knife, pressing it desperately against the ceiling vent.
She had jammed the blade into the mechanical louvers, forcing the vent completely shut.
Her hands were badly sliced, blood dripping down her wrists onto her torn gown.
Mia was huddled in the corner, holding the crying baby tight against her chest.
"They tried to flood the room," Clara gasped, stepping down from the cot.
"I know," I said, coughing as the remnants of the gas irritated my lungs.
"We have to leave the mansion right now."
I grabbed a heavy tactical blanket from my desk and threw it over the children.
"There is an old smuggler's tunnel beneath the wine cellar," I told Clara.
"It leads directly to the Boston harbor."
Clara nodded, wiping the blood from her hands on her dress.
We moved quickly and silently through the secret passageways of my ancestors.
The catacombs were damp, smelling of river water and old decay.
I led them through the labyrinth for twenty minutes until we reached the heavy iron exit door.
I turned the rusted wheel, and the heavy door groaned open, revealing the stormy harbor night.
Standing on the wooden docks, blocking our only path to freedom, was my housekeeper.
Grace was completely soaked by the rain.
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She was weeping uncontrollably, shaking from head to toe.
In her right hand, she held a military-grade detonator with her thumb resting on the trigger.
