Chapter 6 - Into the Abyssal DepthsThe secret stone stairwell plunged steeply into the cliffside beneath Hale House, lit only by emergency LED strips flickering along the damp mortar walls. The air was thick, freezing, and heavy with the roar of the ocean crashing against the rocky sea caves directly below us.
Sarah was moving as fast as her post-surgery body could manage, gasping for breath, clutching the bundle containing her newborn daughter tight against her chest like a shield. The nurse supported her other side, whispering words of encouragement.
“Keep going! Just a little further!” I urged, shining the flashlight app on my phone down the winding stone steps.
We descended what felt like hundreds of feet into the bowels of the cliff before the stairs leveled out into a wide, subterranean concrete bunker. It was a secondary marine docking bay, complete with a reinforced steel bulkhead door leading directly out to a hidden cove carved into the base of the cliff.
Moored inside the private slip was a high-powered, twin-engine Boston Whaler RIB boat, fully fueled and equipped with emergency navigation gear.
“Victor’s escape route,” I realized out loud.
“Can... can we operate it?” the nurse asked, staring nervously at the complex dashboard of throttles and GPS screens.
“I grew up sailing the Maine coast with my father. I can handle a boat,” I said, stepping up to the console and hitting the battery master switch. The dashboard lit up with a soft green glow, and the twin outboard motors hummed to life with a low, throbbing purr.
Suddenly, a heavy metal clatter echoed from the top of the stone stairwell behind us.
Footsteps—fast, heavy, and purposeful—began echoing down the stairs. Someone had found the hidden entrance.
“Get in the boat! Now!” I shouted, pushing Sarah and the nurse over the gunwale into the hull of the vessel.
I untied the stern lines, leaping aboard just as the heavy stone door at the top of the stairs was kicked open. Two of Julian’s tactical guards spilled out onto the concrete platform, raising their weapons.
“Stop right there!” one of them roared.
I slammed the twin throttles forward. The Boston Whaler leaped out of the slip with explosive acceleration, throwing a wall of white water across the concrete floor just as a hail of gunfire peppered the rear transom. Bullets whizzed past my ears, pinging off the metal railings, but the boat surged forward through the open steel bulkhead doors, launching out into the howling darkness of the stormy Atlantic cove.
Spray whipped across my face, stinging my eyes, blinding me to the massive swells rolling in from the open ocean. The wind screamed like a banshee, and the rain fell in sheets so thick I could barely see ten feet in front of the bow.
Yet, as I gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, steering the boat away from the deadly jagged rocks of the cliffside and toward the safety of the mainland channel, a strange, fierce calm settled over my chest.
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We were out. Sarah and the baby were alive.
But back up in that burning, blood-soaked mansion, Victor Hale was still up there alone.
