Chapter 8 - The Siege
“Get down!” Carter roared, tackling me behind a heavy oak workbench as bullets chewed through the wooden walls in a deafening flurry of splinters and lead.
Searchlights from two armed rigid-hull inflatable boats swept across the choppy water outside, pinning the boathouse in a blinding glare of white light.
“We’re boxed in!” Miller shouted over the din, returning fire with his carbine through a broken window pane, forcing the attackers on the water to duck behind their bow shields.
“There’s a utility hatch beneath the floorboards leading to the drainage culvert,” I yelled, remembering the old architectural blueprints of municipal waterfront properties. “It leads out to the storm drains three blocks inland.”
“Move, move, move!” Carter laid down a sustained suppressing fire with his rifle, buying us crucial seconds.
I dropped to my knees, wrenching the rusted iron ring of the floor hatch upward until the latch gave way with a sharp snap. A rush of damp, earthy air surged up from the dark concrete tunnel below.
“Miller, go!” I ordered.
Miller dropped into the opening, followed swiftly by Carter, who covered our rear while feeding fresh magazines into his weapon.
A heavy explosive charge slammed against the exterior wall of the boathouse, shaking the entire structure on its pylons.
“Clara, jump!” Carter shouted from the darkness of the subterranean tunnel.
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I didn't hesitate. I dived headfirst into the drainage pipe just as the rear wall of the boathouse collapsed inward in a blinding flash of fire and smoke.
We scrambled through the freezing, ankle-deep water of the storm drain, hearing the muffled shouts of the mercenaries searching the smoking ruins behind us.
