Chapter 8 - The Trade That Wasn’t
"They're lying," I said instantly, panic seizing my lungs. "They're lying to get us out!"
Silas didn't answer immediately. He walked to a small radio console wired into the wall, flipped a switch, and patched into the local police and emergency medical frequencies. The scanner crackled with white noise before a dispatcher’s voice broke through:
—Unit 4, cancel the coroner on Blackwood Ridge. County transport is rerouting the female victim from the Civic to St. Jude’s Memorial, private wing, under security escort by Ashford Foundation Private Security—
"She's alive," Silas muttered, his eyes narrowing. "Grant didn't kill her at the scene. He wants her as leverage. He knows Julian wouldn't die without leaving a failsafe, and he knows Mara knows where it is."
"We have to get her," I said, grabbing Silas’s heavy canvas sleeve with both hands. "We have to go to the hospital right now!"
"Listen to me, June," Silas said, grabbing my shoulders and forcing me to look him dead in the eye. "St. Jude’s isn't a hospital for regular folks. The top three floors are private medical suites owned entirely by the Ashford Foundation. If you walk through those doors, you aren't walking out. Grant owns the doctors, the guards, and the local sheriff."
"I don't care!" I yelled, tears spilling hot down my cheeks. "She stayed in that car so I could run! I'm not leaving her there to die!"
Silas stared at me for three long seconds. A faint, grim smirk touched the unscarred side of his face.
"Julian’s stubborn blood," he muttered under his breath. "Fine. But we don't go in asking for permission."
The drill above us suddenly punched through the oak ceiling, showering sawdust down onto the workbench.
Silas reached under the table, pulled a remote detonator from a metal lockbox, and flipped up the red plastic safety cover.
"Cover your ears and open your mouth," he commanded.
"What is that?"
"Ten pounds of industrial mining charges wired to the mill's sluice gates," Silas said casually. "If Grant’s dogs want the mill, I’m going to give them the whole damn river."
He slammed his thumb down on the red toggle.
A subterranean THOOM rattled the limestone walls. The iron support beams groaned. Above us, the ceiling shuddered as tons of trapped river water smashed through the breached floodgates, roaring into the upper levels of the mill like a tidal wave.
Screams of terror and shouts of surprise from Grant’s men were instantly drowned out by the thunderous roar of five thousand gallons of raging river water crashing through the floorboards. Water began cascading through the drill holes like miniature waterfalls.
Silas grabbed a heavy duffel bag packed with ammunition, grabbed my arm, and dragged me toward a narrow drainage tunnel at the back of the cellar.
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"Move!" he shouted over the deafening roar of collapsing wood and rushing water. "The storm drain leads to the old highway culvert! We have forty minutes before Grant figures out we didn't drown with his hit squad!"
We plunged into the pitch-black pipe just as the trapdoor above gave way, burying the cellar in tons of river stone and splintered timber.
