Chapter 8
The beam of the flashlight locked directly onto Eli’s face, blinding him with its harsh white glare. "Bold words for an old man out of his depth," Miller snarled from the top of the ladder.
Suddenly, Miller dropped to one knee, raising the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun toward the floor. Eli didn't wait for the trigger to pull. With a sudden, explosive movement, he grabbed the heavy, half-burned canvas tarp off the adjacent storage rack and hurled it directly at the beam of light, while simultaneously firing a single warning shot into the dirt floor inches from the base of the ladder.
The gunshot roared through the confined space like thunder, kicking up a blinding cloud of choking dust and fine ash. The tarp tangled awkwardly over the top of the ladder, momentarily blocking the enforcer's line of sight and sending Miller cursing as he stumbled backward on the rungs.
"Clara, grab my belt!" Eli shouted over the ringing in his ears, holstering his revolver with one hand while grabbing the heavy iron lockbox with the other.
Clara reacted instantly, gripping the thick leather of his jacket with both hands as Eli lunged toward the far corner of the cellar where a rotted timber support beam leaned precariously against the stone foundation. The impact of the recent fire had hollowed out the center of the beam, leaving a narrow gap just wide enough for a person to squeeze through if they were willing to risk a cave-in.
"Through there!" Eli commanded, shoving her gently into the narrow opening behind the beam.
Clara squeezed her small frame through the gap, her green dress snagging and tearing on a jagged splinter of wood, but she didn't stop. She pushed herself forward until she tumbled out into the pitch-black crawlspace beyond. Eli followed immediately, ducking his head and dragging the iron lockbox behind him just as a deafening blast from Miller’s shotgun shredded the air where they had been standing a second before.
Buckshot hammered into the dirt and stone behind them, sending a shower of sharp stone fragments flying against Eli’s back. He ignored the sting, twisting his broad shoulders through the narrow gap and pulling himself into the adjoining sub-basement of the abandoned dry goods store next door.
The air here was completely unblemished by smoke, smelling only of old flour sacks and rusted iron. Clara was already waiting for him near a rusted floor grate that opened upward onto the side alley behind the main street.
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"Can you reach the latch?" Eli asked, his breathing heavy as he set the lockbox down on the wooden floor and checked his revolver cylinder again.
Clara stood on a discarded wooden crate, reaching her hands up through the iron grating. She grabbed the rusted slide-bolt and pushed with all her might. With a dry screech of protesting metal, the grate popped open, flooding the dark crawlspace with the cool, clean air of the approaching evening and the soft purple hues of twilight.
