Chapter 7 - Fire and Confusion
The damp air of the catacombs grew suddenly heavy as Leo stared up at Detective Miller. The detective’s weathered face tightened in immediate disapproval, his scarred hand gripping Leo’s shoulder to stop him.
“Are you out of your mind, kid?” Miller hissed softly, his voice tight with suppressed urgency. “That’s not a distraction plan; that’s a suicide mission. Those people down there aren't just corrupt executives—they’re desperate criminals with nothing left to lose.”
“I don’t care,” Leo replied, his young voice devoid of fear, replaced entirely by a chilling, razor-sharp resolve. “They put my mom in a box. They locked her away to steal her life. If I don’t act now, they’ll move her through that alley before anyone upstairs even realizes the funeral is over.”
Before Miller could formulate another argument, Leo slipped out from behind the stone buttress. His small frame made him nearly invisible in the maze of ancient limestone pillars. He darted swiftly toward a stack of old wooden storage crates piled high near the eastern wall—crates filled with centuries-old hymnals, dry prayer benches, and discarded church pews.
Across the chamber, Dr. Marcus was busy securing a leather restraint strap around a wheeled gurney where a muffled, struggling figure lay bound beneath a gray woolen blanket. Clara stood nearby, watching the exit tunnel with a nervous expression, her phone pressed tightly to her ear.
“Richard, where are you? The alley is clear, but we need the vehicle backed up to the iron gate now!” Clara snapped into the phone.
Leo reached the stack of wooden crates, pulled the heavy metal lighter from his pocket, and flicked the wheel. A bright orange flame sputtered to life, illuminating his pale, determined face. Without a second hesitation, he touched the flame to the dry, peeling edge of a 19th-century hymnal resting near the base of the pile.
The dry paper caught instantly, feeding on decades of accumulated dust and old timber. Within seconds, a sharp crackle of fire broke the tense silence of the catacombs, followed by a thick, dark plume of acrid smoke that billowed toward the vaulted ceiling.
“Fire!” Dr. Marcus yelled, dropping his medical bag as he spun around to see a wall of bright orange flames erupting near the eastern storage crates.
Clara shrieked, dropping her phone as the heat washed over her face. “What is that? Marcus, put it out! Use the extinguisher!”
Panic instantly shattered their calm, calculated demeanor. The smoke thickened rapidly, blinding the makeshift medical station and filling the subterranean chamber with the choking stench of burning paper and varnish.
From the shadows, Detective Miller didn’t hesitate. He drew his service weapon—a heavy, matte-black automatic pistol—and stepped out into the dim halogen light, his voice booming with authority.
“Federal agents! Nobody move an inch, or you will be shot on sight!”
Dr. Marcus froze mid-stride, his hands shooting up into the air as the cold barrel of Miller’s gun leveled directly between his eyes.
Clara backed away in sheer horror, her eyes darting frantically toward the dark exit tunnel. But before she could take two steps toward freedom, a small, cold hand grabbed her wrist with surprising strength.
She looked down, gasping as she found herself staring directly into Leo’s fierce, tear-filled hazel eyes.
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“You’re not going anywhere,” Leo said quietly, raising the heavy brass poker in his other hand.
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