Chapter 19 - The siege of hollow creek
The lights did not flicker this time. They were obliterated.
A thunderous explosion tore through the southern brick wall of the brewery, showering the lower courtyard in fire and pulverized mortar. The concussion shook the entire building, knocking tools from the benches and rattling the heavy timber beams overhead.
"Breach! South gate!" one of the guards screamed through the tactical radio before his voice was cut off by the roar of heavy automatic weapons fire.
"Frank! Take Alina and Mia down through the old drainage tunnels!" Vincent roared over the deafening cacophony of sirens and gunfire, unlimbering a heavy combat shotgun from the weapon rack. "The tunnel comes out near the abandoned rail spur behind the lumberyard! Go!"
"I'm not leaving you, Vincent!" Alina cried, lunging forward and grabbing his arm. Her eyes were wide with a fierce, desperate passion. "We stay together!"
"If they take you, Marco’s sacrifice was for nothing!" Vincent shouted, his eyes locking onto hers with undeniable intensity. "Look at me, Alina! I will find you at the rail spur! But you have to run NOW!"
Frank grabbed Alina's arm, pulling her toward the concealed iron trapdoor in the corner of the floorboards. Mia was tucked securely inside Frank’s jacket, her little hands clinging tightly to the collar, her wooden truck still gripped stubbornly in her tiny fingers.
"Move, Alina! Move!" Frank urged, hauling the heavy trapdoor open and guiding them down the ladder into the pitch-black tunnels below.
Vincent racked the slide of his shotgun, turned toward the stairwell, and was met by a wall of tactical flashlights blinding him from the smoke-filled corridor below.
Four men in unmarked black body armor stormed up the iron staircase, their weapons spitting suppressed rounds that chewed through the wooden walls.
Vincent didn't flinch. He leaned out from the brick archway, firing three devastating blasts from his shotgun. The heavy buckshot tore through the lead two operatives, hurling them backward down the stairs in a spray of splintered wood and ceramic armor fragments.
The remaining mercenaries threw flashbang grenades into the loft.
A blinding white flash and a deafening bang disoriented Vincent for a split second, sending him crashing against the workbench. Shrapnel grazed his shoulder, tearing through his dark suit jacket and opening a deep, bloody gash along his bicep.
Blood poured down his arm, but the pain only sharpened his focus.
He drew his sidearm, firing blindly through the thick smoke into the doorway, catching a third attacker in the neck as the man crested the landing. The fourth operative lunged forward, tackling Vincent across the workbench and sending the antique porcelain doll crashing to the concrete floor, where its ceramic head shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
The mercenary drove a combat knife toward Vincent’s throat.
Vincent caught the man’s wrist inches from his skin, twisting violently with all his remaining strength. Bones cracked sickeningly in the attacker’s forearm. Vincent rammed his forehead directly into the mercenary's faceplate, shattering the visor, and followed with a brutal, point-blank shot that permanently ended the struggle.
Panting heavily, blood dripping from his wounded arm onto the dusty floor, Vincent grabbed the olive-drab footlocker containing Marco’s journals and sprinted toward the open trapdoor.
Behind him, secondary explosions shook the brewery as tear gas and incendiary charges consumed the upper loft.
Vincent dropped into the damp, dark tunnel, slamming the heavy iron hatch shut behind him and throwing the deadbolts. He ran through the waist-deep, foul-smelling drainage water, following the distant sound of splashing footsteps ahead.
Two hundred yards through the underground maze, the tunnel opened out into a desolate, weed-choked ravine behind an abandoned lumberyard.
The cold rain hit Vincent's face like needles.
Through the darkness, he saw the idling headlights of an old, rusted pickup truck Frank had kept stashed in the lumberyard as an emergency secondary extraction vehicle. Frank was standing by the open driver’s door, rifle raised, while Alina knelt beside the rear tire, shielding Mia with her entire body.
"Vincent!" Alina screamed as he stumbled out of the drainage pipe, clutching his bleeding arm and the footlocker.
She ran through the mud and threw her arms around him, completely ignoring the blood soaking his sleeve, burying her face into his chest. "You made it... you made it..."
"I promised you I would," Vincent gasped, his breath ragged.
"Boss, we have to get off the grid completely," Frank shouted, ushering them toward the truck. "Vance has declared martial emergency protocols across three districts. Every bridge out of Cook County is locked down by state troopers."
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"We don't need a bridge," Vincent said, climbing into the passenger seat as Alina and Mia scrambled into the extended cab behind him. "Head south toward Route 55. We take the farm roads."
The pickup truck’s tires spun in the mud before finding traction on the gravel path, launching them out of the lumberyard and into the pitch-black country roads winding south away from the burning brewery.
