Chapter 5 - The Fall of Graham Voss
Down in the sub-cellar, Graham Voss heard the glass break and the muffled, terrible scream from the top of the stairs.
“Levin?” Graham called out, his voice cracking with sudden panic. “Levin, what’s going on up there?!”
Marcus drew his weapon, stepping in front of Graham and aiming his gun toward the narrow brick staircase. “Levin! Report!”
Silence fell over the cellar.
Then, down the narrow steps, a heavy object came tumbling down, bumping noisily against the brick treads before rolling to a stop at Marcus’s feet.
It was Levin’s tactical jacket, soaked in the yellowish chemical liquid, emitting a sharp, burning vapor that instantly made Marcus’s eyes water.
“What the—” Marcus started.
A second glass jar flew through the stairwell opening, shattering against the concrete floor directly between Marcus and Graham.
A cloud of white, choking smoke rapidly filled the small cellar space.
“Gas!” Marcus coughed violently, dropping his gun as the stinging chemical air burned his throat and eyes. He stumbled backward, dropping to his knees, his hands clawing at his throat as he gasped for air that was no longer there.
Graham, shrieking in terror, covered his face with his silk handkerchief and stumbled backward, tripping over a wooden crate and falling hard onto the cold stone floor.
Through the swirling white mist stepped Mara Ellison.
She looked like an apparition from a nightmare—her eyes cold above the damp towel wrapped around her face, the heavy rubber apron stained with chemical residue, Levin’s 9mm pistol held firmly in her leather-gloved hands.
She didn't fire the gun. She didn't need to.
She walked directly past the thrashing, coughing form of Marcus, raised the heavy iron barrel of the pistol, and struck Graham Voss hard across the side of his head.
Graham’s head snapped back, his silver hair splattered with blood as he collapsed onto his side, unconscious.
Mara immediately turned toward the pillar.
Silas was coughing roughly from the gas, his eyes bloodshot, but he was staring at her with an expression of pure, unadulterated awe.
“Mara...” he choked out through his ruined throat.
Mara didn't waste time talking. She reached into Graham’s coat pocket, pulled out his silver pocket knife, and began sawing furiously at the blue industrial cords binding Silas’s wrists.
The thick synthetic fibers yielded under the sharp steel blade. Within thirty seconds, the cords snapped.
Silas collapsed forward, his arms freed, his hands swollen and bleeding. He dropped to his knees, gasping for breath, but his first instinct was not to check his own wounds.
He reached out, grabbing Mara’s arm. “Poppy...”
“Where is she?” Mara demanded, her voice muffled through the towel.
Silas pointed a trembling finger toward the stack of rotting wine crates in the far corner of the cellar. “Behind... behind the pine boxes.”
Mara dropped the knife and ran toward the corner, tearing away the wooden crates with desperate strength.
There, curled into a tiny ball in the dark dust, was Poppy. She was holding her knees to her chest, her small face covered in grey soot, her eyes wide with terror—but she was completely unharmed.
“Mama!” Poppy sobbed, reaching out her arms.
May you like
Mara lifted her daughter into her arms, pressing the child’s face tightly against her shoulder, wrapping her heavy rubber apron around Poppy’s small body to shield her from the lingering chemical fumes.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Mara whispered, her voice finally breaking into heavy, weeping sobs. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
