Chapter 105 - Sleet and Shrapnel
The front window disintegrated in an explosion of tempered glass and flying pine splinters. A percussion grenade detonated in the center of the living room, filling the space with a blinding white flare and a concussive roar that felt like a fist slamming into my chest.
My ears rang with a deafening whine, but the adrenaline burned the shock away. I dropped to my knees behind the iron woodstove, the Remington cradled against my ribs. Through the swirling plaster dust and cordite smoke, the silhouette of a man in tactical gear cleared the broken door frame, his rifle leveled at low-ready.
Before he could swing his barrel toward the cellar hatch, Alistair fired three rapid shots from the floor. Two rounds hit the intruder's ceramic chest plate with loud, metallic cracks; the third took him in the collarbone, driving him backward into the sleet on the porch.
"Martha, down!" Alistair screamed.
I didn't hesitate. I kicked the iron ring of the trapdoor upward, threw the oilcloth packet down into the darkness below, and swung my legs into the narrow vertical chute.
Above me, automatic fire tore through the cabin walls. The rounds chewed through the antique cedar paneling, splintering the rafters and sending showers of burning soot down from the chimney. I heard Alistair shout something unintelligible—a curse, or perhaps an old naval command from his days on the North Sea—followed by the sharp, ragged report of his pistol firing until the slide locked back empty.
Then came a heavy silence, punctuated only by the wind tearing through the blown-out windows above.
I let myself drop the remaining six feet, landing hard on the damp, packed dirt of the root cellar floor. Pain shot through my ankle, but nothing was broken. The smell of dry earth, old potatoes, and ancient rot filled the dark space. Above my head, heavy boots were already crossing the floorboards, deliberate and methodical.
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I reached up, pulled the heavy oak support beam from its notch, and dropped the secondary deadfall across the cellar trapdoor with a dull, subterranean slam.
With the pocketknife clenched between my teeth and the Remington gripped in both hands, I turned toward the narrow brick culvert that sloped downward into the mountain's granite belly.
