Chapter 5 - The Blast
"Get down!" Larkin roared, throwing his entire body over mine.
He tackled me behind a massive, walk-in steel freezer just as the timer hit zero.
The explosion ripped through the kitchen with a concussive force that shattered my equilibrium.
The blast wave threw heavy industrial ovens across the room like children's toys.
Flames instantly swallowed the ceiling, triggering the emergency sprinklers.
Freezing water rained down on us, mixing with the thick, toxic black smoke.
My ears rang with a high-pitched whine that drowned out all other sound.
Larkin pulled me roughly to my feet.
A deep gash on his forehead was bleeding freely, staining his white tuxedo shirt crimson.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded, his hands frantically checking my arms and shoulders.
"No," I choked out, coughing against the smoke.
"The service elevator is destroyed," Larkin coughed, gesturing to a pile of burning rubble.
"I know another way," I said, my adrenaline overriding my fear.
Larkin looked at me with genuine surprise.
"I audited the hotel's renovation budget last year," I yelled over the roar of the fire.
"There is a laundry chute in the back hallway large enough for a person."
I grabbed his hand and led him through the burning labyrinth of the kitchen.
We reached the stainless steel chute door set into the back wall.
I ripped the heavy door open and looked down into the dark, metal cylinder.
"It drops straight into the underground laundry facility," I explained.
Larkin climbed in first, sliding down into the darkness.
I followed a second later, plunging down the steep metal slide.
I tumbled out onto a massive pile of dirty hotel linens.
Larkin was already on his feet, his weapon drawn and aimed at the exit.
We were in the sub-basement, two levels below the street.
"The parking garage is through those double doors," Larkin said, leading the way.
We pushed through the doors, stepping into the dimly lit, cavernous concrete garage.
Larkin's armored SUV was parked twenty yards away.
But standing between us and the vehicle was a man holding a dripping, bloody machete.
It was Victor Donatelli's chief enforcer, a giant of a man named Rossi.
Rossi smiled, revealing teeth stained red with blood.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black remote detonator.
"Thomas said you might survive the kitchen," Rossi chuckled darkly.
May you like
Rossi pressed the button.
A massive series of steel blast doors slammed shut across every exit of the garage, locking us entirely underground.
