Chapter 7 - The Final Door
I sprinted down the dimly lit corridor of the north wing, my boots thudding frantically against the thick carpet.
The emergency strobes were flashing here too, casting eerie red shadows across the walls. When I reached room 402, I stopped dead in my tracks.
The heavy oak door was wide open.
The electronic biometric keypad had been short-circuited by a remote EMP burst or manual override, and the security grille was jammed halfway up.
"Noah!" I screamed, throwing myself through the doorway.
The bedroom was empty. The bed was unmade, toys were scattered across the floor, and the bathroom door was shut tight. From inside the small en-suite bathroom came the sound of frantic, gasping sobs and small fists pounding against wood.
"Clara! Help me! They're coming! They're coming!" Noah’s terrified voice shrieked from inside the bathroom.
I rushed across the room, grabbing the brass doorknob, but it was jammed from the inside—Noah had dragged a heavy wooden laundry hamper against it in sheer, blind panic.
"Noah, open the door! It’s me, Clara!" I shouted, dropping to my knees and pressing my face against the crack. "Look at me! It's just me!"
"No! The bad men are here! They're outside!" he cried hysterically.
"No bad men are getting to you, I promise!" I yelled back, throwing my shoulder against the wood with all my strength. The heavy hamper shifted an inch inside. "I'm right here! Remember what we talked about? We're a team! Open the door!"
Slowly, agonizingly, the crying stopped. The heavy hamper scraped across the tile floor from the inside.
The door clicked open six inches.
Noah’s tear-streaked face peered out, his eyes wild with terror. Without a second thought, I reached through the gap, pulled him into my arms, and crushed him tightly against my chest, shielding his head with my hand.
"I've got you," I whispered fiercely, burying my face in his curls. "I've got you, baby. Nobody is ever touching you."
Suddenly, a heavy footstep echoed behind us in the bedroom.
I froze. My muscles locked up instantly.
I lowered Noah behind my legs, gripped the Smith & Wesson revolver with shaking hands, and spun around, pointing the barrel straight toward the bedroom doorway.
Standing in the frame was a man wearing a black tactical balaclava, a heavy assault rifle slung across his chest, his finger resting near the trigger. He wasn't one of Dominic’s guards; the insignia on his vest belonged to a rival syndicate operating out of Chicago’s South Side.
"Well, well," the intruder sneered, his voice muffled by the mask as he raised his rifle barrel toward us. "Looks like Vale kept a few pets upstairs. Drop the gun, lady, or the kid gets a souvenir."
My finger tightened on the revolver's trigger. My heart stopped.
Before I could pull back the hammer, a deafening roar echoed from the hallway outside the room.
Bang.
A single, perfectly placed shot tore through the air. The intruder's eyes widened behind his mask. He dropped his rifle, staggered backward against the bedroom wall, and slid slowly down to the carpet, motionless.
Behind him in the doorway stood Dominic Vale.
His clothes were spattered with dust and powder burns, his face set in a mask of cold, terrifying fury, his automatic pistol still smoking in his right hand.
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Dominic scanned the room in half a second, his eyes landing on Noah hiding safely behind my legs. The lethal tension in his shoulders instantly melted into overwhelming relief.
He dropped his pistol into his holster, crossed the room in two strides, and dropped to his knees right beside us.
