Chapter 8 - The Iron Hatch
The silence in the cellar was far worse than the noise of the gunshots.
I held my breath, my hands shaking uncontrollably against my belly. Beside me, Evelyn reached into the dark corners of the root cellar and pulled out an old, rusted iron crowbar kept for emergency repairs. Her knuckles were white.
A heavy, deliberate footstep walked across the kitchen floor directly over our heads.
Step. Step. Step.
The footsteps stopped right above the pantry hatch.
A cold, metallic scraping sound dragged across the floorboards as the carpet was kicked aside.
“Sarah...” David’s voice called out from above, muffled by the thick wood, but terrifyingly clear. “I know you’re down there, sweetheart.”
I pressed my back against the damp concrete wall, tears spilling silently down my face.
“You’ve been very disobedient, Sarah,” David continued, his tone turning into a creepy, sing-song coaxing that made my skin crawl. “Spending my hard-earned money on useless blankets... running away with store clerks... ruining my reputation. But I’m a forgiving man. Come up the steps, and we can discuss how we’re going to fix this.”
Silence.
“Come up, Sarah!” he roared suddenly, slamming the heavy iron crowbar down onto the wooden hatch.
THUD!
The wood groomed, small cracks appearing in the grain above us.
“Or I can drop three gallons of gasoline down the air vent and light a match!” David laughed—a high, manic sound of a man whose world had completely collapsed around him. “It’s your choice! Three million dollars from the insurance policy... or the satisfaction of watching you burn!”
Evelyn raised the crowbar, preparing to swing the moment the hatch gave way.
THUD!
Another blow struck the wood. A hinge buckled.
Suddenly, a massive, bloody hand reached out from the darkness of the kitchen floor behind David.
Wyatt wasn't dead.
Covered in drywall dust and blood from a deep cut across his forehead, Wyatt rose up behind David like an avenging titan. He didn't use a gun. He grabbed David by the waist and slammed him backward into the heavy oak kitchen island with enough force to shatter the wooden supports.
David shrieked as the crowbar flew from his hand, clattering harmlessly across the floorboards.
“Evelyn! Unlock the hatch!” Wyatt bellowed, wrestling David to the floor, pinning his arms behind his back in a bone-crushing lock.
Evelyn slid the iron deadbolt back and threw open the hatch.
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At that exact moment, the night sky outside the shattered farmhouse windows illuminated with a dozen blinding white spotlights. The deafening roar of helicopter blades whipped the pine trees into a fury above the house, and the loud, electronic command of a federal megaphone tore through the night air:
“FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION! STAND DOWN! PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”
