Chapter 39 - The Shattered Bastion
"We found the location," I said instantly, stepping forward to block Julian’s view of the sideboard. My heart was pounding so hard I felt it in my teeth. "Arthur remembered the sequence."
Julian’s eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking from me to Arthur, who was sweating profusely, and then down to Eleanor, who was curled into a ball on the floor.
"Indeed?" Julian said, his hand resting on the lapel of his coat. "And where is your husband, Sarah? Did he attempt to play the hero through the conservatory window?"
"Mark went to the lower basement," I lied smoothly, forcing every ounce of conviction I possessed into my voice. "The manual release for the cistern valve has to be turned from the water main before the Bible can be inserted. If you enter the vault without opening the valve, the pressure system will destroy the registry. You know that, Julian. That’s how Henry built it."
Julian tilted his head, watching me like a hawk studying a rabbit. For three terrifying seconds, I thought he would order his men to execute us on the spot.
Then, a sudden, muffled crash echoed from the ceiling above us.
Julian’s eyes snapped upward toward the second floor.
"Upstairs," Julian snapped to his guards. "The nursery. Now!"
"No!" I screamed, lunging toward the lead guard. I grabbed the barrel of his rifle, trying desperately to yank it away.
The guard swung his elbow, striking me across the cheek. The blow knocked me backward onto the hardwood floor, spots of white light exploding in my vision. Eleanor shrieked, cowering beneath the desk.
"You predictable, pathetic creatures," Julian hissed, drawing a sleek, silver-plated automatic pistol from beneath his overcoat. "You thought you could outmaneuver the Directorate with nursery tricks?"
Julian turned and sprinted toward the grand staircase, his boots thudding heavily against the marble.
"Mark!" I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in my face, and bolted after them into the grand foyer.
Upstairs, the nursery door flew off its hinges with a tremendous splintering crash.
As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Mark standing in the center of Clara’s room. In his left arm, he held our crying baby girl, wrapped tightly in her yellow blanket. In his right hand, he held an ancient, heavy volume bound in cracked German leather, its brass clasps glinting under the dim nightlight.
May you like
Julian stood in the doorway, his pistol aimed directly at Mark’s forehead.
"Put the child down, Mr. Evans," Julian commanded, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Hand me the Bible, and I might allow your daughter to grow up in an orphanage."
