Chapter 7 - The Strike on the Ditch
The engagement at the carriage house lasted exactly fourteen minutes.
From the high window of the safe room staircase, Maggie watched as two black commercial vans attempted to sprint through the gravel driveway of the old carriage house. Halfway through the turn, their front wheels sank six inches into a sudden, gray torrent of rushing pool water and thick Bryn Mawr clay.
The vans spun out, their engines roaring in a useless, high-pitched whine as the mud claimed their axles.
Rafael’s men did not have to fire a single shot into the vehicles; they simply surrounded the trapped vans with their rifles raised while Silas used a megaphone to demand their surrender. The attackers, realizing they were stuck in a municipal drainage anomaly engineered by a school cafeteria manager, threw their weapons out of the windows and climbed out with their hands on their heads.
By three in the morning, the estate was quiet again.
Maggie was back in the kitchen, a massive pot of coffee brewing on the commercial stove, when the back door opened. Rafael entered first, his vest gone, his white shirt marked with a single streak of black grease across the ribs.
He didn't look at his chefs; he didn't look at the security monitors. He walked straight to the counter where Maggie was pouring sugar into the storage tins.
"They identified the men," Rafael said, his voice carrying the deep, resonant vibration of a man who had won a war without losing a single soldier. "The leader was Calder’s primary enforcer. He confirmed that you were not the woman they were looking for. The tracking data from Toronto has been cleared. The city council inspectors have been withdrawn from the rail yards."
Maggie set the sugar tin down. She looked at him, her heart doing a strange, slow roll inside her chest. "So it’s over."
"Yes," Rafael said. "The Calder organization has agreed to a territorial settlement. Your school is safe. Your apartment is secure. Your car has been returned to your parking space in Logan Square with a full tank of premium fuel."
Maggie looked around the kitchen. Marco was watching her from the dish station, his face looking oddly mournful. The young guard by the door was staring at the floor, his shoulders slouched as if he had just received a terminal diagnosis.
"I can go home," Maggie said.
"Yes," Rafael said, his gray eyes turning opaque, the old winter stone returning to his features with a sudden, chilling completeness. "The car is waiting in the courtyard. Arthur will drive you back to your life, Ms. Brooks."
May you like
Maggie took off her apron. She folded it precisely into a square according to the rules of the sanitary code, and laid it on the stainless-steel table. She picked up her heavy leather purse, its weight familiar and comforting against her hip.
She walked toward the door without looking back. She didn't say goodbye to Marco, and she didn't say goodbye to Rafael. She had a delivery of low-fat chocolate milk arriving at seven in the morning, and she had already missed three weeks of the Tuesday pizza rotation.
