Chapter 10 - The Basement Panic Room
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The panic room was a self-contained concrete vault built directly into the bedrock beneath the estate. It was stocked with emergency medical supplies, water, independent air filtration, and a hardwired copper landline phone that did not rely on cellular towers.
Marjorie immediately snatched the landline receiver and dialed a direct emergency number.
“Dallas Police Dispatch, this is Attorney Marjorie Dane,” she declared firmly. “Code Red priority. Armed home invasion in progress at the Whitaker estate in Preston Hollow. Multiple automatic weapons fired. Send SWAT immediately!”
She listened for a brief second before slamming the receiver back onto the cradle.
“SWAT is en route,” Marjorie informed us. “Response time is eight to ten minutes.”
Ten minutes in an active siege felt like an eternity.
My cell phone vibrated in my palm. Another satellite text from Savannah appeared:
He found out I texted you. He’s outside my apartment now. God forgive me, Emily—
The message cut off abruptly.
Before I could process the horror of Savannah’s final text, a loud, high-frequency screeching sound echoed through the heavy steel door of our panic room.
Sparks began pouring through the small, reinforced viewing window in the center of the door.
“They brought a thermal cutting torch,” Nate realized, his voice trembling for the first time all night.
A blinding white flame began tracing a glowing, orange line along the steel frame. The air inside the small room rapidly grew warm, filled with the harsh smell of vaporized metal and melting rubber seals.
“They’re melting the hinge pins,” Marjorie said, stepping in front of me and raising her revolver with both hands. “Stand behind me, Emily.”
Nate grabbed a heavy steel fire extinguisher from the wall bracket, holding it like a battering ram.
The white-hot line reached the bottom hinge. The massive steel door groaned under its own immense weight as the metal softened.
Silence descended for three agonizing seconds.
Then, a massive sledgehammer blow struck the exterior of the door. The weakened hinges snapped with a loud metallic crack, and the multi-ton steel door collapsed inward, slamming flat onto the concrete floor with a deafening crash.
Through the lingering smoke and chemical haze, a solitary figure stepped over the fallen steel.
He was not wearing tactical gear or a ski mask. He wore a pristine, tailor-made charcoal suit, dusted lightly with drywall powder.
May you like
Preston Hartwell.
In his right hand, he held a sleek, suppressed semi-automatic pistol. His eyes were devoid of any human emotion—cold, calculated, and terrifyingly calm.
