Chapter 37 - The Phantom of Savannah
"Out through the servant stairs, now!" Vance barked, killing the lantern instantly.
Darkness swallowed the room, illuminated only by the sweeping beams of tactical lights slicing through the windows from the gravel driveway below. Gunfire erupted—not wild bursts, but suppressed, disciplined double-taps shattering the French doors of the ground floor.
"Vance, who are they?" I whispered frantically, taking Chloe into my arms while Madison clutched the strongbox. Chloe began to cry, the sudden terror cutting through the eerie stillness of the house.
"Contractors," Vance replied grimly, guiding us toward the narrow rear stairs that led down to the old plantation kitchens. "Not corporate suits. These are clean-up crews. They aren't here to capture; they're here to burn the estate with us inside."
As we reached the second-floor landing, heavy footsteps pounded up the central staircase. Vance pushed us behind an ornamental oak armoire, raised his firearm, and fired two precise shots into the dark hallway. A groan followed by a heavy body tumbling down the steps confirmed his mark.
"Go! To the cellars!" Vance urged, reloading smoothly. "There’s an underground root cellar that connects to the old drainage canal toward the marsh!"
Madison led the way down into the damp brick cellar. The air was thick with the scent of wet moss and earth. But as we reached the arched tunnel leading to the marsh, the beam of our penlight illuminated a silhouette standing perfectly motionless at the end of the brick corridor.
I froze, my blood turning to ice.
A tall, elderly man stood there, draped in a long trench coat, holding a vintage kerosene hurricane lamp. His hair was silver, his jawline sharp and lined with deep creases of age and sorrow. In his left hand rested a polished wooden cane with a silver eagle's head.
"Arthur?" Madison gasped, stumbling backward against the brick wall.
May you like
The man raised the lamp, revealing pale blue eyes that matched my own with terrifying exactness. But as he spoke, his voice was cracked and weary, bearing a thick coastal drawl that differed slightly from my father's refined mid-Atlantic cadence.
"I am not Arthur," the man said softly, stepping forward into the amber glow. "I am Thomas Campbell. Your father's brother. And if you wish to see your father alive before dawn, you will follow me through this culvert before the mercenaries torch the beams above our heads."
