Chapter 9 - The Chapel in the Woods
The rain came down in violent sheets, turning the dense forest floor into a treacherous quagmire of mud, rotting leaves, and slick black rock. Thunder rattled the heavens, vibrating the very earth beneath their feet.
Julian moved through the shadows like a wraith, his black tactical jacket blending into the darkness, his weapon raised in a low-ready position. Behind him, Agent Vance moved with practiced military precision, sweeping the perimeter with a thermal optic.
Clara followed closely, clutching a ruggedized tactical tablet linked to the titanium drive. The screen pulsed with a faint green blip, three hundred yards ahead, deep within a rocky gorge known as Blackwood Ravine.
"Signal is getting stronger," Clara whispered, rain plastering her hair to her forehead. "She stopped moving. She’s inside the old stone chapel ruins."
"Blackwood Chapel," Julian whispered back. "It was built in the 1800s. The roof collapsed twenty years ago, but the crypt beneath it is fortified stone. If she made it down there, she’s cornered."
"Or she set a trap," Vance warned quietly. "Thermal scan shows three heat signatures approaching the chapel entrance from the north. Heavy gear. Professional sweep."
"They’re Obsidian cleaners," Julian hissed. "They’re going in to finish her."
"We move now," Vance said. "Flank them while they’re focused on the breach."
They pushed through the thorn-choked underbrush, the roar of the wind masking the sound of their boots. Ahead, through the dense canopy, the jagged silhouette of the ruined Gothic chapel rose against the stormy sky like the broken teeth of a leviathan.
Two men in black tactical gear and night-vision goggles stood near the crumbling archway of the chapel’s entrance, suppressed carbines raised, covering a third operative who was attaching a breaching charge to the heavy iron gate leading down into the subterranean crypt.
"I take the left," Vance whispered, raising his sidearm. "You take the right."
Before Julian could answer, an ear-splitting gunshot echoed from within the crypt.
The mercenary at the gate jerked backward, blood spraying from his throat as a high-caliber round tore through his neck. He collapsed into the mud, twitching violently.
"Contact inside!" the second mercenary shouted, spinning his rifle toward the crypt opening.
"Drop your weapons!" Vance roared, breaking cover.
The two surviving mercenaries pivoted instantly, raising their assault rifles. But Julian was faster. Driven by an adrenaline-fueled rage that had been building since his mother shoved Clara into the water, Julian squeezed the trigger twice.
The heavy .45 hollow-point rounds slammed into the chest plate of the mercenary on the right. The impact knocked the man off his feet, sending his rifle flying into the mud. Vance fired in tandem, three double-taps dropping the second mercenary instantly.
Silence slammed back down over the ravine, save for the howling wind and the drumming rain.
"Clear!" Vance called out, moving forward to kick the fallen weapons away from the mercenaries’ reach. Both men were neutralized.
Julian rushed toward the iron gate of the crypt. "Victoria!" he yelled into the pitch-black maw of the stone stairs. "Drop the gun! It’s Julian!"
A weak, trembling sob echoed from the depths of the earth.
Julian signaled Vance to watch the rear, took Clara’s hand, and descended the slick stone steps into the darkness.
At the bottom of the crypt, illuminated only by Julian’s tactical flashlight, sat the fallen queen of Sterling Castle.
Victoria was propped against an ancient marble sarcophagus. Her couture gown was shredded and soaked in mud. A deep bullet graze ran along her left shoulder, blood soaking through her torn sleeve. In her trembling, dirt-caked right hand, she clutched an antique snub-nosed revolver—the emergency weapon Arthur had hidden in the chapel safe decades ago.
When the beam of Julian’s flashlight hit her face, Victoria raised a hand to shield her blinded eyes. She looked broken, pathetic, stripped of every ounce of the terrifying grandeur she had wielded for forty years.
"Julian...?" she rasped, her voice trembling with genuine terror. "You... you came?"
Julian stopped five feet away, his gun lowered but ready. Clara stood beside him, her gaze unwavering.
"I didn't come to save you, Victoria," Julian said, his voice colder than the rain outside. "I came to keep you alive long enough to make sure you rot in a federal penitentiary for the rest of your natural life."
Victoria let out a dry, rattling laugh that quickly morphed into a painful cough. Blood flecked her lips. "You think... you think you can put me in a cage? Julian, you foolish boy... they won't let either of us reach morning."
"Who won't?" Clara demanded, stepping forward. "The Obsidian Group?"
Victoria looked up at Clara, her bloodshot eyes narrowing in bitter defeat. "Obsidian isn't a company, you stupid girl. It’s a family. And Arthur was their founding chairman."
Julian froze. "What did you say?"
"Arthur didn't run from them," Victoria whispered, her eyes manic, her teeth stained with crimson. "Arthur *created* them! He built the syndicate thirty years ago to hide his criminal empire! He only turned against them when they demanded your life as collateral for a defaulted sovereign debt!"
Victoria stared directly into Julian’s horrified eyes.
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"Arthur didn't die an innocent victim, Julian," Victoria gasped, clutching her bleeding shoulder. "Your father faked his final medical records. The man buried in the Sterling family mausoleum... isn't Arthur Sterling."
***
