Chapter 4 - The Cliffside Escape
I threw the iron latch on the rear tunnel hatch, pulling the heavy steel door open. A cold, damp rush of ocean air and the roar of crashing waves instantly filled the cramped space.
"Take Noah down to the boat," I instructed Hannah, shoving the flashlight into her hand. "Start the engine and wait in the mouth of the sea cave. If I am not down there in five minutes, take the boat and head south toward the San Diego harbor."
"Mara, no! You can't go up there!" Hannah pleaded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "They have automatic weapons!"
"He's my husband," I said firmly, locking my eyes with hers. "I spent the last year pulling away from him because I thought he didn't love me anymore. I'm not leaving him today."
Without waiting for her reply, I turned back to the main bunker door. I punched the release code, stepping back out into the smoky, subterranean wine cellar.
The house above was a warzone. The sharp, deafening sound of automatic gunfire echoed through the floorboards, punctuated by shouting and the splintering of heavy hardwood furniture.
I crept up the stone stairs, staying low to the ground. The air in the kitchen was thick with black smoke and the acrid stench of burnt gunpowder. Through the arched doorway leading to the main living room, I saw the destruction.
Our beautiful home—the white stone, the art pieces I had curated, the glass walls overlooking the Pacific—was shredded by bullet holes.
Eric was crouching behind the heavy marble kitchen island, blood streaming down the left side of his face from a deep gash near his hairline. He was holding his hand against his ribs, his breathing jagged and painful.
Three feet away from him, two mercenaries were advancing slowly behind tactical shields, keeping him pinned down, while Marcus Croft stood safely near the shattered terrace doors, watching with cool satisfaction.
"Finish it," Croft ordered his men casually. "We'll search the bunker ourselves once he's dead."
I looked around the dark kitchen frantically for anything I could use. My eyes landed on the commercial gas range against the back wall.
In a sudden flash of inspiration, I remembered the emergency propane bypass valve Eric had installed beneath the counter two years ago during a storm renovation.
I crawled quietly across the tiled floor behind the island, reaching under the main gas line. I grabbed the red steel lever and yanked it open completely.
The sharp, rotten-egg smell of mercaptan gas immediately began pouring into the enclosed kitchen space at high pressure.
I grabbed a heavy copper sauté pan from the overhead rack, crept up to the edge of the kitchen island, and took a deep, steadying breath.
"ERIC!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "DOWN!"
Eric's head snapped toward me in utter shock. Recognizing the copper pan in my hand and smelling the overwhelming rush of gas in the air, his instincts took over instantly. He threw himself flat onto the floorboards, covering his head with his arms.
I swung the heavy copper pan with all the force in my body, slamming it hard against the exposed metal junction box on the kitchen wall.
A bright, electric blue spark flashed.
BOOM!
A violent fireball erupted across the kitchen ceiling as the accumulating gas ignited. The shockwave threw the two tactical guards backward onto the floor, their shields clattering loudly across the tile.
The smoke alarm shrieked, instantly triggering the overhead commercial fire sprinkler system. Thousands of gallons of water began pouring down from the ceiling like a torrential tropical downpour.
I scrambled forward through the blinding deluge of water and smoke, grabbing Eric by his belt. "GET UP!"
Eric looked up at me through the pouring water, his face covered in soot and blood, his silver eyes wide with absolute, stunned disbelief. "Mara...?"
"Move your ass, Whitaker!" I yelled, pulling his arm over my shoulder.
He grunted in pain, pushing himself up off the slick floorboards. Together, we stumbled back through the burning kitchen, down the cellar stairs, and into the subterranean bunker.
Behind us, I heard Croft coughing frantically through the smoke, shouting orders to his surviving men. "AFTER THEM! DON'T LET THEM REACH THE TUNNEL!"
I slammed the heavy iron bunker door shut, throwing the primary security bolts, and dragged Eric into the dark cliffside tunnel.
We stumbled down the steep, slippery stone steps cut into the rock face, the roar of the ocean growing louder with every step. We emerged into the damp, dark sea cave beneath the estate just as a high-powered zodiac boat pulled up alongside the wooden ledge.
Hannah was at the helm, holding baby Noah securely in a chest harness under her jacket. "GET IN!"
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Eric collapsed onto the rubber floor of the boat, gasping for air as I jumped in beside him, pushing the boat away from the slippery rock wall. Hannah slammed the throttle forward.
The twin outboard motors roared to life, shooting the inflatable craft out of the dark sea cave into the open, turbulent waters of the Pacific Ocean just as automatic gunfire began spraying the water behind us from the cliffside balcony above.
