Chapter 71 - The Shadow in the Flue
The brass latch inside the chimney flue clicked with the sharp, hollow snap of an iron trap springing shut.
I dropped the heavy receiver. It swung against the side of the mahogany desk, its cord knocking violently against the wood, the rhythmic hum of the dead dial tone buzzing like a trapped hornet.
My instincts took over before my brain could process the terror freezing my veins. I didn’t shout. Shouting would give away my position in the dim suite. Instead, I lunged across the Turkish carpet straight toward the crib. Ruby was still asleep, her rosebud lips parted, completely oblivious to the cold, damp draft that had suddenly invaded the warmth of the room.
The stone fireplace didn't just contain soot and charred cedar logs. The heavy fireback—a slab of cast iron embossed with the Vance family crest of an anchor wrapped in winter ivy—shuddered. It groaned along concealed roller tracks, swinging inward into a darkened cavity behind the masonry.
A blast of freezing, stagnant air smelling of old lime and grease rolled out over the polished floorboards.
Through the opening, a silhouette materialized. It wasn’t Arthur Vance in the flesh; it was a man in black tactical wool, a respirator masking his features, carrying a pneumatic door ram and a silenced automatic.
"Federal Marshals!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, diving across the crib and shielding Ruby’s body with my own torso. "Door! Breach! Breach!"
The sound of my voice detonated the silence of the fifth floor. Outside the heavy oak suite door, heavy boots slammed against the corridor parquet, followed immediately by the shout of Deputy Marshal Miller: "Amanda! Down! Get down!"
The intruder didn't hesitate. He swung the muzzle toward the room's main entrance, but I didn't wait for him to fire. My hand swept across the hearthside stand, wrapping around Donald’s heavy wrought-iron poker. With every ounce of adrenaline coursing through my arms, I swung it in a vicious upward arc.
The iron point struck the man's forearm just as he leveled the weapon. The gun discharged with a muffled *thwip-thwip*, the slugs tearing into the solid oak entry door from the inside. The impact knocked him off balance, his boots slipping on the slick hearthstone.
An instant later, the hallway door exploded inward under the hydraulic breacher of the federal marshals.
"Federal agents! Drop it!" Miller roared, bursting through the shattered frame with his sidearm drawn, his partner right behind him.
The intruder didn't surrender. Knowing he was cut off from behind, he lunged backward into the narrow opening behind the mantelpiece. Miller fired two deafening rounds into the opening, the reports echoing like thunderclaps inside the confined stone hearth. Powder smoke and pulverized mortar puffed into the air. A grunt of pain echoed from the dark shaft, followed by the clatter of boots sliding down an iron ladder inside the wall.
"Suspect down the internal service chute!" Miller yelled into his shoulder radio, his face pale with shock. "Lock down the basement conduits! Lock down the loading dock now!"
Miller’s partner rushed to my side, grabbing my arm to hoist me up. "Mrs. Vance, are you hit? Is the baby hit?"
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"We're fine," I gasped, my chest heaving, clutching Ruby so tightly to my breast that she woke up and began to wail in terror. "Arthur Vance... he called the room. He said Donald lied. He said Isle Royale has a Vault Zero."
The marshal looked toward the dark opening behind the fireback, where the cold draft continued to whistle like a subterranean ghost.
