Chapter 7 - The War Dog’s Vigil
We moved through the service tunnels beneath the mansion as the house above us
erupted into a deafening war zone.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of automatic gunfire reverberated through the brick
foundations. Shouts, breaking glass, and the concussive blasts of stun grenades
echoed from the grand parlor above.
I supported Donna Maria with my right arm, while my left hand gripped the Sig
Sauer pistol Lorenzo had given me. Dr. Harris hurried behind us, carrying the
emergency oxygen tank and medical monitor.
And leading the way through the dim, damp corridor was Baron.
The old dog didn't limp. The adrenaline surging through his veins had
temporarily conquered fourteen years of arthritis. He moved with the low, silent
stalking gait of a trained combat hound, his nose testing the air at every
intersecting archway.
Suddenly, Baron froze.
His ears pinned back against his skull. The fur along his spine rose into a
razor-sharp ridge. A low, vibrating snarl rumbled deep within his chest.
I stopped dead in my tracks, pulling Donna Maria behind the shadow of a heavy
brick pillar. “Doctor. Down.”
At the end of the corridor, where the tunnel connected to the library staircase,
the heavy oak door creaked open.
Two men in black tactical gear stepped into the tunnel, their rifle-mounted
flashlights slicing through the darkness. They weren't Moretti enforcers; the
patches on their shoulders bore the crossed-cannons insignia of Don Vance’s
Atlanta syndicate.
“Check the wine cellar,” one whispered in a harsh southern drawl. “Vance said
the old woman might have been stashed in the cisterns. If she’s breathing, put
two in her skull.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like an anvil. My hands were slick with cold
sweat against the checkered grip of the pistol.
They were thirty feet away. In another five seconds, their flashlights would
sweep our alcove.
Baron didn't wait for permission.
With a terrifying, guttural roar that echoed off the damp bricks like thunder,
the twelve-year-old Doberman launched himself into the corridor.
“What the fu—!”
The lead gunman didn't even have time to raise his barrel. Baron’s seventy-pound
frame struck him squarely in the chest, knocking him flat against the concrete
floor. The dog’s jaws clamped violently around the man’s throat, severing flesh
and vocal cords in a single, brutal twist.
The second gunman panicked, swinging his rifle toward the dog. “Die, you mutt!”
BANG! BANG!
I didn't think. The training my father had drilled into me on the Gulfport
target ranges took over my body before my brain could register fear.
I stepped out from behind the brick pillar, raised the Sig Sauer with both
hands, and fired two controlled rounds into the gunman’s chest.
The bullets struck his tactical vest, knocking him off balance. Before he could
recover, I adjusted my aim upward by six inches and squeezed the trigger a third
time.
The round took him cleanly through the center of his forehead.
He collapsed into the shallow water with a heavy splash, his rifle clattering
away against the bricks.
Silence returned to the tunnel, save for the heavy panting of the dog and the
distant, muffled gunfire from the upper floors.
Dr. Harris stared at me from behind the pillar, his face pale as a ghost. “My
God, Evelyn...”
“Keep moving,” I breathed, the metallic smell of gunpowder filling my lungs,
clearing my mind of every lingering doubt.
We stepped over the bodies. Baron trotted ahead, licking a streak of blood from
his jowls, his tail wagging once as he looked back at me.
We reached the heavy steel vault door hidden behind the false brick wall beneath
the library.
I entered the six-digit mechanical code Donna Maria whispered into my ear.
The heavy steel locking bolts retracted with a pneumatic hiss. We pushed the
heavy door open, ushering Donna Maria and the doctor inside the
climate-controlled safe room.
“Evelyn,” Donna Maria called out, catching my sleeve with her frail fingers.
“Come inside. Lock the door.”
I looked back down the dark corridor toward the sounds of gunfire raging in the
grand parlor.
Lorenzo was up there, fighting against forty men, outnumbered, bleeding for the
mother I was guarding.
“No, Donna Maria,” I said softly, gently unclamping her fingers from my arm.
“Baron and I are holding the tunnel entrance. Nobody gets to this door while
Lorenzo is breathing.”
I hit the emergency close button on the interior panel.
The heavy steel vault door sealed shut with an airtight clack.
May you like
I turned around, racked the slide of my pistol, and knelt beside the old war dog
in the dark corridor, waiting for the wolves.
