Chapter 64 - The Crypt Beneath the Hearth
The flashing lights faded down Blackwood Road as the federal transport convoy hauled Clara Von Habsburg away into custody.
Thomas climbed down the steep rocky path, his rifle slung across his back, his graying beard dripping with lake rain.
He walked over to where I stood on the wet gravel, looking at me with the tired, proud eyes of a soldier coming home from a thirty-year war.
"You did good, Riley," Thomas said, his voice raspy and deep.
"Your grandfather would have leveled this whole mountain before letting that woman take an inch of it."
"She said something before they hauled her off, Thomas," I said, the Glock still warm in my holster.
"She said my mother gave her a key to the cellar beneath the hearth."
Thomas’s expression darkened instantly, all trace of victory vanishing from his weathered face.
"The false floor under the river stone fireplace," he whispered, turning toward the cabin.
We moved swiftly through the rain-soaked grass, up the cedar porch steps where my mother had stood so smugly with her moving truck days before.
The house was dead silent, the faint scent of woodsmoke lingering in the air.
We pushed through the heavy oak door and made our way to the living room, where the massive stone fireplace dominated the northern wall.
Thomas grabbed an iron poker from the hearth and wedged it beneath the massive flagstone that formed the base of the firebox.
With a groan of shifting mortar, the stone levered upward, revealing a narrow opening leading into the dark foundations beneath the cabin.
I clicked on my tactical flashlight, shining the beam down into the subterranean dampness.
The smell that hit us wasn't mold or rotting timber; it was the sharp, metallic tang of cordite and dry cell battery acid.
"Thomas, wait," I whispered, holding out my hand to stop him.
Beneath the floor joists, resting squarely against the central bedrock pillar of the house, sat an olive-drab military demolition crate.
Thick red and blue wires ran from an electronic digital display mounted on top of the crate directly into three blocks of industrial composition C-4.
The digital timer was live.
It was counting down from forty-seven minutes.
My breath caught in my throat as the green LCD numbers flickered: 00:46:58... 00:46:57...
"That bastard woman," Thomas hissed, his hand gripping the edge of the stone hearth.
"She didn't come here just to take the lake house."
"She wired the bedrock with a fail-safe detonation to burn the evidence if the transfer failed."
"My mother didn't know," I said, feeling the sudden cold horror wash over my spine.
"She thought she was giving Clara a hideout for emergency cash."
"My mother handed the devil the detonator to blow her own daughter off the map."
The radio on Thomas's tactical vest crackled to life with urgent static.
"Thomas, this is perimeter unit three," a frantic voice called through the speaker.
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"The transport van carrying Clara Von Habsburg was just rammed by two semi-trucks at the Blackwood bridge!"
"Heavy automatic gunfire reported! She's out, Thomas! They broke her out!"
