Chapter 6 - The Mystic Tunnel
"MOVE!" Viktor roared, grabbing my arm and shoving me violently behind an iron dumpster just as the heavy SUV slammed into the alley walls, showering us with sparks and crushed brick.
The SUV’s doors flew open.
Four men stepped out into the pouring rain, weapons raised, heavy automatic rifles echoing through the narrow brick corridor.
SUPPRESSIVE FIRE!
Bullets chewed through the brickwork above our heads, sending clouds of red dust and stone chips cascading down on us.
Viktor didn't panic. He pulled himself up behind the dumpster, fired three precise shots through the rain, and dropped the lead shooter instantly with a bullet to the chest.
"MAYA! THE BASEMENT CHUTE!" Viktor barked, pulling a smoke grenade from his coat pocket, pulling the pin with his teeth, and hurling it into the center of the alley.
A thick, blinding cloud of grey chemical smoke erupted between us and the shooters.
"Run!" Viktor commanded.
We sprinted through the fog, kicking open the side wooden door of an abandoned meatpacking warehouse thirty feet down the alley.
We threw ourselves inside, slamming the heavy iron security bar into place just as a hail of bullets rattled against the outside of the door like metallic hail.
Inside, the warehouse was dark, echoing with the sound of dripping water and the deep, low hum of the nearby river. The air was thick with the smell of old salt, rust, and curing brine.
Viktor stumbled against a concrete pillar, clutching his side as fresh blood began to seep through his dark bandages.
"Are the babies okay?!" I gasped, kneeling beside him in the dark.
Viktor carefully unbuttoned his cloak. Alexander and Sofia were wide awake, protected by the heavy Kevlar lining of Viktor’s tactical vest, completely unharmed by the chaos outside.
"They're fine," Viktor panted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "The tunnel access is fifty feet ahead... under the old salt vat."
Behind us, the heavy iron door began to buckle under the impact of a battering ram.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
"They're going to break through in twenty seconds!" I yelled.
Viktor grabbed my hand, forcing himself upright through pure, unadulterated willpower. We sprinted across the slippery concrete floor toward a massive, rusting iron vat embedded in the floor.
Viktor pulled a heavy steel lever on the side of the vat.
With a grinding screech of ancient gears, the heavy iron floor panel slid open, revealing a steep concrete staircase descending into pitch darkness below.
"Go down!" Viktor ordered.
I plunged down the stairs, using my phone’s flashlight to illuminate the slick concrete steps. Viktor followed right behind me, hitting the secondary release button inside the shaft.
The iron panel above us slammed shut with a heavy THUD just as the warehouse doors above burst open.
We were trapped in the dark, thirty feet below the streets of Boston.
The tunnel was narrow, constructed of old red brick and arched ceilings, stretching out into the dark ahead of us. Water ran along a shallow drainage trough in the center of the floor.
"How far does this go?" I whispered, my voice echoing off the damp brick.
"Quarter of a mile," Viktor said, leaning heavily against the wall as he walked. "It empties out beneath the old harbor pier where the Vance II is docked."
We walked quickly through the dark tunnel, the quiet sound of our footsteps drowned out by the muffled explosions of Leo’s men searching the warehouse far above us.
After ten agonizing minutes of navigating the underground maze, the smell of fresh sea salt grew stronger.
At the end of the tunnel, a heavy steel hatch appeared.
Viktor stepped forward, typed a six-digit code into a rusted mechanical keypad, and turned a heavy wheel.
The hatch swung open.
Fresh, cold sea air rushed into the tunnel, along with the deep, rhythmic churning of the Mystic River.
Docks spread out before us beneath the dark shadow of the harbor bridge. Tied to the furthest concrete pylon sat a sleek, ninety-foot dark grey vessel with reinforced steel plating and tinted bulletproof glass—a tactical interceptor boat built for high-speed maritime transport.
Standing on the deck of the vessel, holding a suppressed assault rifle, was a tall woman in dark tactical gear with a razor-sharp haircut and a severe scar across her brow.
"BOSS!" the woman called out, dropping her weapon and running down the gangplank toward us.
Viktor slumped against the hatch frame, a faint, exhausted smile touching his lips.
"Elena," Viktor breathed. "You made it."
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"I have the boat prepped and the engines idling, Viktor," Elena said, her eyes quickly sweeping over me, then resting on the two infants hidden beneath his cloak. "Who is she?"
"She's the reason my children are still breathing," Viktor declared, turning his amber eyes to me with a look of fierce, unshakeable gratitude. "Get her aboard. We're heading to the Berkshires."
