Chapter 8 - The Tunnels
We crashed violently into the thick, overgrown hedges directly beneath the balcony.
Sharp branches tore aggressively at my clothes and skin, but the dense foliage broke our deadly fall.
I rolled onto the muddy grass, instinctively shielding Rosie with my own battered body.
Searchlights from the mercenary vehicles began sweeping wildly across the manicured lawns.
“Are you hurt, Rosie?” I whispered urgently, checking her small body for serious wounds.
“My arm just hurts a little bit,” she sniffled bravely, pointing to a shallow cut on her shoulder.
I pulled my dark jacket over her pink pajamas to camouflage her in the shadows.
“We have to be very quiet now, like little mice,” I told her.
I carried her silently toward the old stone greenhouse at the edge of the property.
My grandfather had built a hidden network of prohibition-era smuggling tunnels beneath these very gardens.
I pushed open the rusted iron door of the greenhouse and quickly found the loose floorboard.
I pulled the heavy wooden trapdoor open, revealing a pitch-black, descending stone staircase.
I climbed down into the damp darkness, pulling the trapdoor securely shut above us.
The underground tunnel smelled aggressively of rotting earth and ancient, stagnant water.
I turned on the small flashlight application on my cell phone to guide our way.
We walked endlessly through the narrow, terrifyingly quiet stone corridors.
Above us, I could faintly hear the muffled sounds of heavy boots stomping across the gardens.
They were systematically hunting us with ruthless military precision.
“Where are we going, Damian?” Rosie asked softly, shivering in the damp cold.
“We are going to a safe place in the city, I promise.”
After twenty agonizing minutes, we finally reached the rusted iron grate leading to the coastal road.
I kicked the rusted hinges repeatedly until the heavy iron grate finally gave way.
We crawled out into the pouring rain, completely covered in thick, dark mud.
A sleek, black SUV was parked silently on the desolate shoulder of the road.
I raised my stolen gun, preparing for yet another deadly ambush.
The driver’s side door opened, and a tall figure stepped slowly into the heavy rain.
It was Marco, holding an umbrella and completely unarmed.
“I am not here to fight you, Mr. Vance,” Marco said, raising his empty hands.
“You murdered my housekeeper, Marco, I will kill you right here.”
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“I injected Sofia with a paralytic to fake her death and save her from your father,” Marco revealed calmly.
“She is currently alive and waiting for you in the city.”
