Chapter 49 - The Ambush at the Battery
Inside the secret vault lay an airtight titanium deposit box stamped with the United States Federal Reserve seal of 1982. But before Vance could reach for the handle, the wooden cellar doors at the top of the stairs blew apart with a deafening crash.
Flashlight beams sliced through the damp darkness of the crypt.
"Rachel, get behind the pillar!" Vance shouted, drawing his weapon in a fluid motion.
Heavy boots pounded down the stone steps. Julian Sterling’s elite private security—men armed with suppressed submachine guns—poured into the subterranean corridor.
"Rachel Sinclair!" a rough voice shouted through the shadows. "Julian sends his regards. Leave the box and step out with your hands up, or none of you leave this church alive!"
Gunfire erupted, the sharp crack of rounds ricocheting off the historic brick walls.
Madison screamed, dropping to the floor beside Captain Rowe. I shielded Chloe with my entire body, pressing my back against the cold stone of my grandfather’s tomb, whispering prayers into her soft curls as she began to cry.
Vance fired three precise, controlled shots. A mercenary screamed, collapsing onto the stairs.
"Rowe!" Vance bellowed over the roar of gunfire. "Take Rachel, Madison, and the baby through the old tunnel to the Battery seawall! Now!"
"Vance, no! I won't leave you!" I cried, tears mixing with the dust falling from the ceiling.
Vance turned to me for a split second amidst the smoke. His eyes were fierce, filled with an unshakeable devotion that took my breath away. He reached into the open vault, grabbed the titanium lockbox with one hand, and shoved it into my arms.
"You took Chloe into divorce court and fought for her life, Rachel," Vance whispered fiercely, pressing a brief, urgent kiss to my forehead. "Now fight for her future. I will meet you at the harbor."
He racked the slide of his pistol, kicked over a heavy wooden bench to create cover, and began laying down suppression fire.
Captain Rowe grabbed my arm, pulling Madison and me toward an arched iron grate at the rear of the crypt. We squeezed through just as another volley of bullets chipped away the stone where we had stood.
We ran through a dark, flooded drainage tunnel beneath the streets of Charleston, the sound of explosions and gunfire muffled behind us. When we finally pushed open the exit hatch, we tumbled out onto the wet stones of the Charleston Battery.
The storm raged over the black waters of the harbor, waves crashing furiously over the seawall.
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And waiting on the cobblestone street under the flickering streetlamps stood Julian Sterling, leaning on an ivory cane, surrounded by four armed bodyguards.
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