Chapter 9 - The Siege of Villa Knossos
Gunfire erupted in the darkness, the staccato cracks of automatic weapons echoing off the stone walls like thunder.
A heavy hand grabbed my shoulder, throwing me violently backward beneath the heavy mahogany table.
Dante’s body covered mine, shielding me from the hail of plaster and splintered wood flying through the air.
“Stay flat and do not move!” he shouted above the deafening chaos.
A red laser sight swept across the underside of the table, illuminating shards of broken crystal and spilled wine.
Dante drew his suppressed weapon, aimed toward the doorway, and fired three double-taps into the gloom.
Two heavy thuds hit the marble floor, accompanied by wet groans of dying men.
Emergency backup lights flickered to life along the baseboards, bathing the destroyed dining hall in an eerie crimson glow.
Several wealthy syndicate bosses were already crawling toward the side exits, screaming for their private bodyguards.
Alberto and Nikos Vanezis were nowhere to be seen, having slipped through the concealed security door behind the head table.
“They cut the main grid to herd us into the courtyard where their snipers are waiting,” Dante said, checking his magazine.
He pulled me out from under the table and thrust a compact black semi-automatic pistol into my hands.
“Do you know how to operate this?”
My hands shook, but the memory of my father showing me his service weapon in our Ohio garage flashed through my mind.
“Slide the receiver, check the safety, keep my finger off the trigger until I am ready to shoot,” I answered, racking the slide.
A grim smirk crossed Dante’s face for a fraction of a second.
“Good girl.”
“Nikos is pinned down at the front gates, so we take the lower wine cellars to the utility tunnel.”
We sprinted through the service pantry, dodging the bodies of fallen guards dressed in consortium livery.
Two of Vanezis’s gunmen stepped out of the cold storage locker, raising tactical shotguns.
Dante fired twice, dropping the first man instantly, while I raised my weapon and pulled the trigger at the second.
The recoil slammed into my wrists, the bullet catching the second shooter in the hip and sending him crashing into the stainless-steel shelving.
Dante kicked the man’s shotgun away and grabbed my arm, dragging me down a winding stone stairway into the subterranean cellar.
The air grew damp and cold, smelling of ancient oak barrels and centuries-old earth.
Behind us, heavy boots pounded down the stone stairs, accompanied by angry commands barked in Greek.
“They have reinforcements coming through the gardens!” I shouted, my lungs burning with exhaustion.
“The tunnel exit is fifty yards ahead behind the vintage rack,” Dante said, his voice tightening with sudden strain.
I looked over at him and gasped in horror.
Dark blood was soaking through the left side of his bespoke tuxedo jacket, dripping steadily onto the dusty stone floor.
“Dante, you have been hit!”
“It is a grazing round through the ribs,” he lied through clenched teeth, his face pale beneath the dim emergency lights.
“Keep moving, Emily.”
“If we stop in this cellar, neither of us sees tomorrow morning.”
We reached the end of the cellar where a heavy iron door stood slightly ajar, leading into a narrow drainage aqueduct.
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Dante shoved me through first, then slammed the iron bolt home just as a volley of bullets slammed into the outside face of the door.
We tumbled out into the overgrown ravines of the Cretan hillside, beneath a sky filled with cold, uncaring stars.
