Chapter 9 - The Abyss in the Master Suite
Air was cut off instantly. Darkness edged into the borders of Daniel’s vision, a rushing roar filling his ears like crashing ocean waves. The mercenary leader was massive, built like a brick wall, his grip a vise of pure muscle and tactical precision.
Daniel fought the instinct to flail. He dug his boots into the hardwood floor, driving his weight backward, slamming both of their bodies hard into the heavy oak doorframe.
The impact jarred the mercenary, forcing a sharp grunt of air from his lungs, but his grip on Daniel's throat did not break.
"Die quietly," the man growled, tightening his forearm, crushing Daniel's windpipe.
Daniel’s hand clawed desperately at his own waist, his fingers searching, reaching for anything—any edge, any tool. His hand brushed against the pocket of his heavy field jacket.
The small, high-powered tactical flashlight he had used in the basement.
With the last surging burst of oxygen in his dying brain, Daniel retrieved the heavy aluminum flashlight, flipped his hand around, and slammed the jagged, strike-bezel end of the flashlight backward, directly into the mercenary’s face.
Crunch.
The heavy aluminum bezel shattered the man's nose and cheekbone.
The mercenary shrieked in agony, his chokehold instantly breaking as he released Daniel, staggering backward, clutching his bloody face.
Daniel collapsed to his knees, drawing in a ragged, burning gasp of air that scorched his lungs. He didn't wait to recover. He spun around on the floor, swept his leg outward, and kicked the mercenary hard behind the knee.
The large man crashed to the floor with a heavy thud.
Daniel lunged on top of him, driving his knee into the man's chest, grabbing the flashlight with both hands, and driving the heavy aluminum handle down across the mercenary's temple.
The man went instantly limp.
Daniel sat atop the unconscious mercenary, his chest heaving violently, his throat burning with every desperate breath. The room was deathly quiet once more, save for the sound of his own ragged breathing and the rain hammering against the glass.
Three mercenaries neutralized.
Daniel dragged himself up, his muscles trembling from the intense surge of adrenaline. He retrieved his fallen pistol from the floor, pulled the flashlight from his jacket, and pointed the beam across the master bedroom floor.
Victoria was gone.
The spot where she had been lying unconscious against the wall was empty, leaving behind only a smear of wet mud and a few drops of blood on the light-colored rug.
Daniel’s blood ran cold once again.
She had woken up during the chaos. And she knew exactly where the most vulnerable targets in the house were located.
"Toby!" Daniel screamed, abandoning all pretense of stealth.
He sprinted across the bedroom into the walk-in closet. He threw aside the racks of heavy winter coats and shone his flashlight beam down at the wooden access hatch in the floorboards.
The wooden cover had been dragged open.
"No, no, no!" Daniel gasped, dropping to his knees and shining his light down into the narrow plumbing crawlspace.
The space was empty. Toby and Clara were gone.
Fresh blood drops lined the edge of the open floorboards—Victoria's blood from her broken wrist. She had dragged the children out of their hiding place.
Daniel stood up, his vision swimming with pure, murderous panic. He spun around, following the faint trail of blood drops leaving the master bedroom, leading back down the long corridor toward the rear service staircase—the narrow, hidden stairs that led straight down into the kitchen pantry, and ultimately, into the basement.
She was taking them to the foundation. She was returning to the source of her obsession.
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Daniel checked his pistol magazine—four rounds remaining. He racked the slide, his face hardening into an expression of lethal, absolute purpose.
He raised his flashlight and plunged into the dark stairwell, following the blood into the depths of his home.
