Chapter 4 - The Cellar Hatch
The gravel alley was narrow, bordered by overgrown wooden privacy fences and dripping willow branches. The rain was coming down harder now, turning the dirt path into a slick lane of mud.
Officer Cole moved with practiced tactical precision, his body low, his weapon held in a two-handed low-ready position. I followed five paces behind, my sneakers squelching softly in the wet gravel, the small metal canister of pepper spray clutched so tightly in my palm that my fingers felt numb.
My garage sat at the end of the alley—a detached two-car structure with faded white paint and a heavy wooden side access door.
As we approached, I noticed the side door was slightly ajar, resting open by barely two inches.
Cole held up a hand, signaling me to freeze against the wet cedar fence of the neighboring yard. He pointed toward the ground near the garage foundation.
A heavy black electrical cable ran out from under the garage door, trailing across the mud, and disappearing directly into the ground beneath the old storm cellar doors that led into my basement.
Daniel hadn't just broken into the basement from the inside. He had used the old exterior root cellar access that I had nailed shut three years ago after the divorce.
He had crowbarred the rusty iron latch open.
Cole leaned in close to my ear, his breath cold against my skin. "The jammer power feed is coming from inside that cellar. I'm going to drop down and sever the connection. The second the jammer goes offline, the primary police radios will come back up, and the entry team will move in."
"He'll be waiting down there, Cole," I whispered back. "It's a trap."
"He thinks he's dealing with patrol officers who don't know the layout," Cole replied grimly. "He doesn't know I spent four years in the Marine Corps infantry before I joined the department."
Cole stepped toward the cellar doors, reaching down with his left hand to grab the rusted iron handle while keeping his gun trained on the dark opening.
He pulled.
The heavy wooden doors swung open with a screech of rusted hinges.
Instead of a dark staircase, a blinding flash of white light erupted from the cellar pit, accompanied by a deafening CRACK that sounded like a localized lightning strike.
A flashbang.
The concussive shockwave knocked Cole off his feet, sending him sliding backward into the mud. His weapon flew from his grip, clattering across the wet gravel toward the open garage door.
I was thrown against the fence, my ears ringing with a shrill, piercing noise, my vision swimming in disorienting spots of green and yellow.
Through the haze of smoke and rain, a tall figure stepped out from the cellar hatch.
Daniel.
He wore a dark tactical rain jacket, heavy boots, and held a heavy steel crowbar in his right hand. He didn't even look at Officer Cole, who was groaning on the ground, struggling to clear his vision.
May you like
Daniel looked directly at me.
"Hello, Clara," Daniel said, his voice terrifyingly calm through the ringing in my ears. "I told you that you should have called me first."
