Chapter 8 - The ReckoningZ
The man reached the bottom of the basement stairs, panting heavy, his face twisted in rage. He looked up at the open coal chute, then down at me standing near the furnace, holding an iron fire poker I had grabbed from the hearth tools.
"Smart kid," the man spat, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Too bad his mother isn't as quick."
He pulled the police officer's stolen handgun from his belt and aimed it directly at my chest.
"Where is the key to the lockbox, Clara?" he growled, stepping closer. "Richard said the drive inside that box holds the offshore account codes. Give me the key, or I put a bullet through your heart and go hunt down that little brat in the woods."
Threatening my life was one thing. Threatening Owen was another.
A cold, fearless calm washed over me. I wasn't just a terrified victim anymore. I was a mother defending her child.
"The key?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly steady. "It's right here."
I raised my left hand, showing a small silver key clutched between my fingers. He lowered his gaze for a fraction of a second to look at it.
That fraction of a second was all I needed.
I swung the heavy iron fire poker with every ounce of physical power in my body, striking him violently across the side of his knee.
A loud, sickening CRACK echoed through the basement.
The man screamed in agony as his knee joint collapsed inward. He fell hard onto the concrete floor, dropping the gun. The firearm skidded across the dusty floor, stopping near the furnace base.
Desperate, the man lunged forward on his stomach, reaching his hand out toward the gun. I threw myself on top of his back, hammering the iron poker down onto his shoulder. He roared, thrashing violently, elbowing me hard across the jaw. Pain exploded behind my eyes, and I fell backward onto the cold concrete, taste of copper filling my mouth.
He grabbed the gun and rolled over, aiming it at my head. "You bitch!"
BANG!
A deafening blast echoed through the enclosed basement.
I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the piercing pain of a bullet. But it never came.
Instead, the intruder gasped, his eyes rolling back into his head as the handgun slipped from his limp fingers. He slumped forward onto the floor.
Behind him stood Detective Miller and two armed police officers, their service weapons raised, smoke rising from the barrel of the detective's gun. And standing right beside the detective, clutching a bright blue flashlight, was Owen.
"MOM!" Owen shrieked, tumbling down the basement stairs and hurling himself into my arms.
I collapsed onto the floor, wrapping my arms around his small frame, sobbing uncontrollably as I held him against my chest. "You came back... you saved me, baby... you saved me..."
"I found the police," Owen cried, kissing my blood-stained cheek. "I pointed them to the basement door!"
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Detective Miller knelt down beside us, placing a comforting, heavy hand on my shoulder. "Paramedics are on their way, Clara. It's over. He's down."
I pulled back from Owen, looking into his clear, beautiful eyes. He wasn't the helpless, blind boy in the orphanage anymore. He was whole. He was strong. And he was mine.
