Chapter 13 - The Rum rumble Above
The low, vibrating rumble grew louder, shaking loose a fine layer of white dust and mortar from the ancient brick ceiling of the subterranean corridor. Sergeant Miller grabbed Arthur by the shoulder, shoving him firmly toward the stairs.
"Move! Now!" Sergeant Miller yelled over the rising roar, which now sounded less like an earthquake and more like a heavy industrial engine revving directly overhead.
Julian didn't look at his father as the old man was dragged past him up the stairs. Instead, he turned back toward the open vault door, where his mother was slowly standing up from the tattered cot, her milky-blue eyes wide with a sudden, panicked confusion. He rushed back into the small, padded room, scooped the frail, paper-thin woman into his arms, and carried her out into the corridor just as a shower of small stones and plaster rained down from the ceiling above.
"I’ve got you, Mom. I’ve got you," Julian repeated like a mantra, shielding her head against his tuxedo jacket as he sprinted toward the service stairway.
They burst out of the dark cellar and into the grand hallway on the main floor, where the chaos had multiplied tenfold. Emergency lights flashed brilliant red and blue through the shattered windows, casting long, frantic shadows across the black-and-white checkered floor. Clara and Elena were both being escorted toward the front doors by state troopers, their expensive evening dresses dragging through the broken glass and scattered debris.
As Elena passed him, her dark eyes met his for a fraction of a second. She didn't look angry anymore; she looked exhausted, hollowed out by the collapse of the world she had spent a lifetime building on quicksand.
"Julian!" Elena called out over the wailing sirens outside, her voice cracking. "The backup drive is behind the library portrait! If the feds get it, we lose everything!"
Julian ignored her. He handed his mother over to two awaiting paramedics who rushed through the front doors with a stretcher, watching with dead eyes as the woman who had haunted his childhood was wheeled out into the cool night air toward an ambulance.
The rumble in the ceiling reached a deafening crescendo. A massive section of the ornate plaster molding above the grand staircase cracked down the center, parting with a sound like a gunshot, and plummeted straight onto the checkered marble floor below, smashing into a million white and black shards.
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Through the dust cloud, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the arched doorway—a man in a sharp black suit holding a heavy black metal briefcase, his face obscured by the dim amber glow of the surviving wall sconces.
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