Chapter 26 - The Fire in the Orchard
"Julian, listen to me—" I started, but the call dissolved into a blast of screeching static, followed by three sharp, rhythmic electronic tones: a satellite signal jamming pulse.
"The line is dead," I whispered, staring wide-eyed at Grandma Rose. "Julian says they're coming to burn the house down."
Rose didn't waste a second. She reached into the footlocker, pulled out the manila envelope stamped with the DOJ seal, and shoved it deep inside her dressing gown. Then she grabbed an antique leather satchel, stuffed the Canadian birth records inside, and slammed the locker shut.
"We don't have until dawn," Rose stated with terrifying clarity. "The cellar has an old coal chute leading to the root cellar beneath the carriage house. Move, Clara!"
We didn't even make it back to the stone staircase before the first explosion detonated above us.
The concussion shook the manor's foundation, raining century-old mortar and stone dust down upon our heads. A deep, roaring thump resonated through the floorboards—the sound of an incendiary device tearing through the north parlor. The shrill, piercing shriek of smoke alarms instantly filled the subterranean air, accompanied by the distinct, sickening smell of burning timber and industrial accelerant.
"The chapel stairs!" I shouted, grabbing Rose’s arm as the lights overhead flickered once, twice, and died completely, plunging the cellar into pitch-black suffocating darkness.
I flicked on my phone's flashlight. The narrow beam cut through the thick haze of grey smoke already creeping down through the ceiling joists. Above us, the unmistakable sound of combat boots pounded across the first-floor hardwood—heavy, tactical, methodical.
"Check the library! Burn the archives!" a harsh voice barked from above. "The girl and the old woman are still inside! Check the basement hatch!"
"This way," Rose hissed, pulling me by the sleeve toward the rear wall of the wine vault. Behind a rack of 1961 Chateau Latour, an iron grate hung loose against the fieldstone wall.
Rose pushed the heavy oak rack aside with strength that defied her age. "Up the chute, Clara. I’ll be right behind you."
"No, Grandma, you first," I insisted, but she shoved me toward the opening with iron force.
"Don't argue with an eighty-two-year-old woman holding loaded buckshot, Clara! Climb!"
I crawled into the narrow, angled concrete shaft, scraping my knees and palms against the rough surface. Cobwebs and soot clung to my face as I kicked upward, using the narrow metal rungs embedded in the wall. Five seconds later, I reached the rusted iron trapdoor at the top, threw my shoulder against it, and burst out into the damp, freezing mud behind the carriage house.
Rain poured from the black sky in sheets. Behind me, Old Oak Manor was already an inferno. Flames thirty feet high were licking out of the shattered library windows, illuminating the sprawling oak trees in a terrifying orange glow. Black smoke billowed into the midnight sky like a funeral shroud.
I reached back into the chute and pulled Grandma Rose out by her hands, hauling her onto the wet grass just as a deafening blast shattered the third-floor dormers, sending a shower of burning glass into the rose garden.
"Grandma, look," I gasped, pointing toward the gravel circular drive.
Parked beside the burning front steps were three unmarked matte-black tactical trucks. And standing by the open door of the lead vehicle, shielded from the downpour by an armed mercenary holding a massive black umbrella, stood Victoria.
She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere coat, her blonde hair pinned in an immaculate chignon, holding a crystal glass of champagne. As the roof of our family home began to cave in with a terrifying roar of collapsing rafters, Victoria tilted her head back, laughed into the rain, and took a slow, celebratory sip.
May you like
Beside her, stepping out of the shadows of the porch, stood a tall, silver-haired man in a bespoke navy suit.
My father. Arthur Sterling. Alive, untouched, and smiling down at his favorite daughter.
