Chapter 8 - The Tunnel's End
The sound of gunfire in the narrow brick tunnel was deafening, the muzzle flashes illuminating the darkness like a series of violent, staccato lightning strikes.
"Go, Sarah! Run!" Vance screamed, dropping to one knee and returning fire down the narrow tracks.
I didn't look back. I ran with everything I had left, my sneakers slipping on the wet brick, my lungs burning for air as the weight of the child in my arms seemed to double with every step. The tunnel seemed to go on forever, a concrete labyrinth with no exit, but then—
A heavy, iron door loomed in the darkness ahead.
It was the exit to the municipal maintenance garage. It was locked from the inside with a thick, rusted steel bar.
I reached the door, my hands shaking as I tried to lift the bar. It was too heavy, the iron fused to the brackets by decades of rust and dampness. Behind me, the sound of gunfire was getting closer, the bullets ricocheting off the brick walls with a terrifying, high-pitched ping.
"Leo, help me," I gasped, holding him against the door. "Push the bar up! On three!"
The little boy, despite his swollen, bandaged arm, reached out with his good hand, his small fingers locking onto the rusted iron beside mine.
"One... two... three!"
With a loud, metallic screech, the bar gave way, sliding upward through the brackets. I threw the door open, and we tumbled out into the cold, rain-slicked interior of the municipal garage.
The garage was filled with old city trucks, salt spreaders, and heavy machinery, all illuminated by the warm, orange glow of the streetlights outside the high windows.
A sudden, violent explosion shattered the iron door behind us.
A grenade had been thrown into the coal tunnel. The concussive blast knocked me off my feet, sending me and Leo crashing onto the oil-stained concrete floor of the garage.
I lay there for a second, my head ringing, my vision blurry as a thick cloud of plaster dust and grey smoke poured through the shattered doorway. Through the haze, I saw a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark leather jacket step through the wreckage. He was holding a silenced submachine gun, his eyes cold and predatory as they scanned the garage.
He spotted us.
"End of the line, Doc," he said, his voice carrying the calm, professional indifference of a man who had ended dozens of lives. He raised the weapon, aligning the sights with my chest.
A sudden, roaring engine sound shattered the silence of the garage.
A massive, yellow city snowplow—parked in the corner of the garage—suddenly surged forward, its massive iron blade lowering as its headlights blinded the hitman.
The truck slammed into him at thirty miles an hour, sending his body flying across the concrete, crashing into a stack of heavy truck tires with a sickening, wet thud.
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The driver’s side door of the plow flew open, and Marcus, our twenty-four-year-old ER nurse, stepped down, his face still pale but his eyes burning with a fierce, football-player adrenaline.
"Nobody touches my doctor," Marcus growled, holding a heavy iron wrench in his hand.
