Chapter 7 - The Blind White Flash
The pinless grenade hissed at Arthur Vance’s polished shoes, emitting a faint, high-pitched squeal that instantly signaled the end of the conversation.
Arthur’s serene corporate mask cracked. For the first time, panic flashed across his face as he leaped backward, abandoning his aim at Clara and throwing his arms over his eyes just as the device detonated.
CRACK-FLASH!
A blinding, magnesium-white light swallowed the bedroom, so intense it seemed to turn the walls inside out. The concussive blast wave blew the remaining glass out of the windows and rattled the teeth in Clara’s skull. A high-pitched, deafening whine filled the room, erasing all other sound.
Clara screamed, though she couldn't even hear her own voice. She dropped to her knees, slamming her hands over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut as afterimages of searing white light danced against the inside of her eyelids.
Through the ringing in her ears, heavy boots thudded onto the floorboards.
"Grab her!" a gravelly voice shouted through the static—Miller.
Before Clara could fully process where she was, strong, calloused hands grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her violently upright. The world was spinning, a chaotic blur of gray smoke, dark shadows, and the acrid smell of sulfur and burnt wiring.
"Can you walk?" Miller yelled, his voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
Clara nodded frantically, blinking rapidly to clear the blinding spots from her vision. "Lily! Where is Lily?!"
"She's with me! Move!" Miller barked.
He didn't waste a second. With his free arm, he shoved Clara toward the shattered window frame where his trench coat still hung. Outside, a heavy-duty nylon rappelling rope was secured to a steel anchor bolted into the exterior brickwork, dangling straight down into the murky, rain-slicked alley below.
"Slide down! Fast!" Miller commanded, pushing Clara over the ledge.
Clara didn't hesitate. She grabbed the rough fibers of the rope, wrapped her legs around it, and let gravity take her, sliding down into the freezing night air while friction burned the palms of her hands raw. She hit the wet asphalt of the alleyway with a hard, bruising thud, scrambling backward into the shadows just as a series of muffled gunshots rang out from the bedroom window above.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Bullets chewed into the brickwork inches from the rope. A moment later, Miller dropped down beside her, landing lightly on his feet like a seasoned operator. Tucked securely inside his wet trench coat, little Lily was still completely limp, her blonde hair matted against his chest, breathing in those slow, agonizingly shallow intervals.
"We need a vehicle. Now," Miller panted, scanning the dark, narrow alley.
"My car," Clara gasped, pointing toward a beat-up gray sedan parked near a rusted dumpster twenty yards away. "Keys are in my pocket."
Miller snatched the keys from her trembling hand, unlocked the passenger door, and gently placed Lily across the back seat, arranging her coat over her small frame. Clara scrambled into the driver's seat, her hands shaking so badly she missed the ignition slot twice before managing to jam the metal key home.
The engine roared to life with a loud, sputtering cough. Clara slammed her foot on the gas, the tires spinning wildly in the wet mud before catching traction and launching the sedan out of the alley and into the rain-drenched streets.
In the rearview mirror, Clara caught a glimpse of the house they had just fled. On the second-story balcony, Arthur Vance stood framed against the dim interior light, completely unfazed by the smoke, calmly watching them drive away.
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And as Clara checked the rearview mirror once more, she saw something that made her slam on the brakes in sheer terror.
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