Chapter 9 - The Chimney Route
The air inside the narrow brick ventilation shaft was thick with decades of soot and dust. Nathanael gritted his teeth, wedging his shoulders into the cramped vertical space and pushing upward with his legs. Every movement scraped his skin against the rough, aging masonry, but adrenaline kept the pain at bay.
Below him, the muffled voice of Agent Vance drifted up through the dark chute. "Cross, report your position. Are you clear of the first junction?"
"I'm at the mid-level damper," Nathanael whispered back down the pipe, his voice sounding hollow and strained. "Moving toward the fireplace flue now."
"Be careful. We're monitoring your progress through the thermal trace on our gear," Agent Vance replied. "Once you pop out of the master bedroom fireplace, remain low. We don't know if Vance is still in the room."
Nathanael paused, taking a slow, ragged breath in the darkness. The memory of the wedding felt like it had happened in another lifetime. Just hours ago, he had stood at the altar in a pristine tuxedo, believing he was stepping into a future of stability and love. Now, he was crawling through a chimney like a common thief to rescue a little girl from a man who had risen from the dead for vengeance.
He reached the top of the vertical shaft where an old cast-iron damper blocked the opening. Pushing upward with both hands, Nathanael forced the rusted hinges to give way with a sharp, echoing screech.
A cloud of gray soot billowed down into his face, making him cough violently. He muffled the sound against his forearm, praying the noise hadn't alerted anyone in the bedroom above.
Slowly, cautiously, Nathanael poked his head out of the brick hearth.
The master bedroom was bathed in the harsh afternoon light streaming through the uncovered bay windows. The king-size bed was neatly made, the white duvet untouched. But the room was empty.
Nathanael hoisted himself out of the fireplace, brushing soot and ash from his white shirt and black trousers. He crept silently across the hardwood floor toward the open bedroom door, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Hello?" a small, trembling voice echoed down the hallway.
Nathanael froze. It wasn't Marcus Vance’s voice. It was Lily.
"Lily?" Nathanael called out softly, stepping out into the hallway and scanning the corridor.
"Uncle Nate?" the little girl whimpered from the end of the hall, near the study door.
Nathanael sprinted down the corridor, rounding the corner just as the heavy oak study door began to swing shut. He threw his weight against the wood, pushing it wide open.
Inside the study, Lily was sitting in a leather armchair, clutching her worn teddy bear tightly to her chest. Standing behind her, holding a sleek silver pocket knife dangerously close to her blonde wavy hair, was not Marcus Vance.
It was Eleanor.
She had somehow slipped away from the police escort on the way to the precinct, shedding her ruined lace wedding gown for a dark trench coat, and she was staring at Nathanael with a look of absolute, unhinged triumph.
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"Drop your shoes, Nathanael," Eleanor snarled, pressing the cold steel blade against the side of Lily's neck. "Or I swear to God, this child's wedding present will be her last."
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