Chapter 9
The tactical flashlights from outside swept erratically across the living room walls, casting long, nightmarish shadows over the chaotic struggle. Vance stretched his bleeding fingers, desperately straining to reach the discarded handgun. Everett tightened his grip around the traitor's neck, using every ounce of his remaining strength to pull him backward, but the slick blood on Vance’s collar made it nearly impossible to maintain a secure hold.
"Maren, get out of here! Run to the cellar!" Everett screamed, dodging a wild, blind punch from Vance.
Maren didn't freeze. She grabbed Bennett by the hand and sprinted toward the rear hallway, practically dragging the terrified boy over the fallen debris. Sloane Avery was right behind them, the encrypted hard drive secured deeply inside her leather jacket.
With a sudden, violent twist, Vance managed to break Everett’s chokehold. He threw his body weight forward, his fingertips grazing the cold metal of the gun. Everett reacted entirely on instinct. He kicked out brutally, his heavy boot connecting squarely with Vance’s ribs. The impact sent the older man sprawling backward into the ruined remnants of the stone fireplace, buying them a precious few seconds.
Everett didn't wait to see if Vance was unconscious. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed the handgun from the floor, and bolted down the dark hallway after his family. The heavy front door was suddenly kicked open, splintering off its hinges as three mercenaries clad in black tactical gear swarmed into the house. They immediately opened fire, the suppressed weapons making terrifying, localized popping sounds as bullets chewed through the drywall behind Everett.
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He rounded the corner, diving headfirst toward the heavy wooden door of the basement. Maren and Sloane had already pulled it open. Everett scrambled inside, slamming the solid oak door shut and throwing the heavy iron deadbolt into place just as a barrage of bullets slammed into the other side.
"Down the stairs, move!" Everett commanded, leading the way into the pitch-black cellar. The air down here was cold, smelling intensely of damp earth and old preserves. The Maine house was over a century old, built during the Prohibition era. Everett remembered a childhood story about a hidden smuggler's tunnel that led from the root cellar to the rocky beach below. He prayed the old stories were true, because the wooden door upstairs was already beginning to splinter under the relentless assault.
