Chapter 9
The sharp click of the revolver’s hammer pulling back echoed like thunder in the enclosed basement. Mark didn’t hesitate. With a burst of adrenaline, he kicked a heavy wooden wine crate straight at Clara’s shins while simultaneously diving to the concrete floor, tackling Sarah and Lily down behind the heavy oak storage shelf.
Bang!
The gunshot deafened the room, the bullet punching through a wooden wine rack and shattering three bottles of expensive Cabernet, sending a dark, crimson spray across the concrete floor. Glass shards rained down like jagged hail.
“Mark!” Sarah screamed, grabbing Lily and pulling her tight against the base of the heavy shelf as another round slammed into the wood just inches above their heads.
“Stay down!” Mark yelled back, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Footsteps pounded rapidly across the concrete as Clara advanced, her flashlight beam sweeping wildly across the shelves in search of their hiding spot. “You can’t run, Mark! This house is a fortress, and I hold every key!”
Mark’s hand brushed against something metallic on the floor near the open cavity—the rusted lockbox. Without thinking, he grabbed the heavy steel box and hurled it hard against the far wall. The loud metallic crash echoed loudly, drawing Clara’s attention and her next blind shot to the opposite corner of the basement.
Bang!
The bullet ricocheted off a steel pipe with a high-pitched whine. Taking advantage of the distraction, Mark scrambled on his hands and knees toward the narrow crawlspace beneath the basement stairs where Clara kept her spare utility tools. His fingers brushed against a heavy iron crowbar left behind by the contractors.
Clara stepped closer to the wine racks, her flashlight beam cutting through the settling dust. She held the revolver steady, her breathing slightly elevated but her demeanor terrifyingly composed.
“Come out, Mark. Let’s not make this messy in front of your daughter,” Clara called out, her voice dripping with sadistic mock-patience as she rounded the shelf.
She aimed the barrel down at the floor behind the rack where Mark’s white shirt was visible. Without a second thought, she pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The bullet tore straight through the white fabric of the shirt Mark had discarded on the floor as a decoy. Clara smiled, stepping forward to inspect her handiwork, only to feel a sudden, crushing impact behind her right knee.
Mark swung the heavy iron crowbar with all his remaining strength, catching Clara’s leg squarely at the joint. With a sharp yelp of agony, Clara bucked forward, dropping the revolver as she crashed hard onto the concrete floor.
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Sarah didn’t hesitate. She scrambled out from behind the shelf, lunged across the floor, and kicked the matte-black firearm far out of Clara’s reach into the open sub-floor cavity.
Mark stood over Clara, breathing heavily, the iron crowbar clutched tightly in his trembling hands as he stared down at the woman who had stolen his life.
