Chapter 11
"Go!" Julian ordered, providing covering fire as Clara and Victor scrambled toward the back of the penthouse. Samson abandoned his kill, bounding after them, his brindle coat slick with blood.
They reached the laundry room. Julian kicked the heavy steel door shut and locked the deadbolt. Bullets instantly began hammering against the other side, denting the metal. They had seconds.
Victor, despite his wounded leg, ripped the heavy ventilation grate off the wall. "It's a straight drop. We have to slide down the structural cables."
Clara went first. She grabbed the greasy steel cable inside the dark shaft and slid down into the abyss, the friction burning through her latex gloves. She hit the floor of the clinic on sub-level four with a heavy thud. Victor dropped down next, groaning in pain as his injured leg took his weight.
Julian came last, Samson strapped to his chest in a heavy tactical harness he had grabbed from the armory. The moment Julian’s boots hit the floor, a muffled explosion from above shook the ceiling. They had blown the laundry room door.
"They'll follow us down," Victor gasped, leaning against a stainless steel operating table.
"No, they won't," Julian said grimly. He walked over to the main structural support column in the center of the underground clinic. He pulled a small detonator from his tactical vest. "I built this clinic off the grid. I also rigged the upper shaft with thermite in case of a raid."
He pressed the button. A deep, muffled thump echoed from above, followed by the sound of collapsing concrete and twisting metal. The ventilation shaft they had just used caved in completely, sealing them in the underground bunker.
Silence fell over the clinic, broken only by Victor's heavy breathing and Samson's panting.
"We're trapped," Clara said, looking at the rubble blocking their only way out.
"We're secure," Julian corrected her, pulling off his tactical vest. "There's an old prohibition-era smuggling tunnel connected to the eastern wall of this basement. It leads out to the harbor. But we can't move yet. Victor is bleeding, and they have the streets locked down above us."
Julian turned to look at Clara. The adrenaline was fading, and for the first time, Clara saw that Julian's left arm was soaked in blood. A bullet had caught him in the bicep.
"You're hit," Clara said, her medical instincts taking over again.
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"It's just a graze," Julian dismissed it, waving her off.
"Sit down," Clara commanded, pointing to the operating table. Her voice held the unquestionable authority of a trauma nurse. "Before you bleed out and I have to explain to Finch why I lost my leverage."
