Chapter 7: The Chase Beneath the Floorboards
They crawled in single file through the labyrinthine network of air ducts, the metal sides groaning under the combined weight of the two adults. Marcus moved with practiced military stealth, pulling himself forward with his elbows while keeping his precious cargo shielded against his chest. Clara followed closely, her knees scraping against the ridged seams of the galvanized steel, the heavy polymer pistol tucked awkwardly into the waistband of her blue scrubs.
Behind them, the distant sounds of pursuit grew louder. The mercenaries had discovered the open ventilation shaft. A harsh beam of white tactical light cut through the darkness a few sections back, accompanied by the metallic clatter of heavy equipment scraping against the narrow walls.
“They’re in the duct!” Clara hissed, her voice vibrating against the metal pipe and sounding much louder than she intended.
“Don't look back, just keep moving!” Marcus called out over his shoulder, his voice remarkably steady despite the physical exertion. “The junction for the storm drain is only fifty yards ahead. Once we drop through the access hatch, we’ll have cover.”
Clara pushed harder, ignoring the sharp pain in her bruised cheek and the burning muscles in her arms. Every breath felt restricted by the stale, dusty air recirculating through the ventilation system, but she forced herself to maintain her rhythm. Ahead of her, Marcus suddenly stopped, his broad shoulders blocking the narrow tunnel.
“We’re at the junction,” Marcus whispered back. Without hesitation, he reached up, shoved a heavy metal ceiling grate outward with his combat knife, and dropped out of sight into the damp, echoing space below. A second later, his voice floated up from the darkness. “Drop Toby down to me. Gently.”
Clara paused at the lip of the drop, carefully unhooking the portable oxygen tank and lowering it down into Marcus’s waiting hands. Then, leaning over the edge of the access hole, she slid Toby’s small, limp form down into his father’s arms. The boy stirred slightly, letting out a soft sigh, but remained unresponsive to the chaos surrounding them.
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Before Clara could climb down herself, a gunshot rang out behind her. The bullet sparked off the metal wall just inches from her right ear, sending a shower of hot shrapnel into the ductwork. A masked face appeared in the beam of light fifty feet back, raising a suppressed weapon for a second shot.
Clara didn't think. She drew the polymer pistol from her waistband, flipped the safety switch with her thumb the way Marcus had shown her, and pulled the trigger blindly into the darkness.
