Chapter 7 - The Turning Point
As the thugs dragged us toward a dark storage room in the back of the boathouse, my mind raced frantically. I couldn't accept this ending. I had survived too much in my life to let a bunch of thugs destroy my family without a fight.
As the second guard grabbed my left arm to shove me through the doorway, I noticed something glinting on the cluttered workbench we were passing: a heavy industrial can of high-viscosity marine grease and an open box of matches left beside a kerosene heater.
"Wait," I gasped, intentionally stumbling forward and throwing my weight against the guard holding my arm.
"Watch it, old man!" the thug cursed, jerking me upright.
In that fraction of a second, while his attention was diverted, my right hand swept across the workbench, knocking the heavy tin of marine grease directly onto the open flame of the kerosene heater.
Whoosh!
A violent plume of thick, black smoke and intense fire erupted across the wooden floorboards, instantly catching the old, oil-soaked rags piled beneath the workbench.
"Fire! The place is on fire!" the guard panicked, dropping my arm and stepping back as flames licked hungrily up the wooden wall.
"Get the extinguishers!" Viktor yelled over the sudden roar of the blaze, his calm composure shattering into instant chaos.
"Dad, grab my hand!" Michael shouted, shaking off his daze. Driven by pure adrenaline, he lunged forward, kicking the legs out from under the remaining guard who was rushing toward us.
I didn't hesitate. I dove past the tumbling men, grabbing a heavy iron fire iron resting by the old woodstove. As Viktor lunged toward us with a drawn pocketknife, I swung the iron bar with all the strength I had left, catching him squarely across the wrist. The knife clattered harmlessly onto the burning floorboards.
"Run!" I roared, grabbing Michael by the collar.
We burst through the side emergency exit of the boathouse just as the interior became an inferno of roaring flames and thick, blinding smoke. Behind us, shouts of panic echoed as Viktor and his men scrambled to save themselves rather than pursue us.
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We sprinted through the dark, wet grass toward my car, the red taillights glowing like a beacon in the fog. I fumbled for the keys in my pocket, unlocked the doors, and shoved Michael into the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel.
I slammed my foot on the gas pedal. The tires spun furiously in the mud before catching grip, and we launched backward out of the driveway just as the boathouse roof gave way in a shower of sparks.
