Chapter 7 - The Aftermath and the Cleanup
The acrid smell of gunpowder and blown glass hung thick in the air, stinging the back of Dominic’s throat. On the floor a few feet away, Marcus gasped, his chest heaving irregularly as dark blood pooled beneath his torn jacket. The remote trigger for the estate's gas line lay inches from his twitching fingers, its digital green indicator light blinking with a steady, menacing rhythm.
Dominic didn't hesitate. Leaving his daughters wrapped tightly around his legs, he lunged across the shattered coffee table, swept the heavy electronic trigger off the rug, and slammed his heel down onto its plastic casing until the internal circuit board cracked and the green light went pitch black.
The dead-man’s switch was dead. The house was safe.
“Grace,” Dominic breathed, looking up through the amber gloom of the library toward the secret doorway. His voice shook for the first time in fourteen months. “The garage. Marcus said he put Isabelle in the trunk of the vehicle downstairs.”
Grace didn't ask questions. She levered the break-action of the Remington, ejecting the spent casing with a sharp metallic snap, dropped a fresh red shell into the chamber, and handed the heavy weapon straight to Dominic.
“Keep the girls here,” Grace said, her eyes flashing with ice and fire. “I’ll check the lower garage.”
“No,” Dominic said, standing up and handing the shotgun back to her with a look of absolute, unyielding partnership. “We go together.”
Leaving the girls safely sequestered inside the warm alcove of the secret passage with strict instructions to stay put, Dominic and Grace swept out of the library and down the grand spiral staircase toward the subterranean motor court. The concrete air was damp and smelled of exhaust and damp stone.
Parked near the far corner of the garage was Marcus’s black sedan, its rear hazard lights blinking rhythmically.
Grace raised the Remington while Dominic sprinted toward the back of the car, gripping the latch of the trunk with both hands. With a sharp, guttural heave, he wrenched the heavy lid upward.
Inside, bound by zip-ties and gagged with heavy duct tape, lay Isabelle. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and filled with a terrifying, hollow panic.
“Isabelle!” Dominic cried out, dropping to his knees. He pulled out his pocket knife, carefully slicing through the restraints on her wrists and ankles before ripping the tape from her mouth.
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Isabelle gasped as if she had just surfaced from deep water, coughing violently as Dominic pulled her out of the cold metal cavity and crushed her against his chest.
“You’re safe,” Dominic whispered, his voice cracking as hot tears finally spilled over his lashes. “It’s over. You’re home.”
