Minotaur

16

He could hear their voices out in the hall. At least three men, and from the noise they were making, probably more. They were arguing, trying to come up with a plan for how to take the kitchen. They didn’t know Chapel was all but defenseless, and they didn’t want to just come racing into an ambush. At least somebody out there had half a brain, and that was a problem as far as Chapel was concerned.

He moved as far back from the door to the hall as he could get. He scanned the kitchen, looking for defensive positions, and saw that the counter was the best cover he would get. Not that it would make much difference. Unarmed as he was he could only hide, and that would only buy him a few seconds. He looked around for weapons, and found plenty of them—an entire block of sharp kitchen knives, a cleaver, even a rolling pin that would make a good club.

The men coming for him would have guns. There was no question about that.

He grabbed a good long carving knife anyway—he refused to go down without a fight. As he was reaching for it he saw there was a third door in the kitchen, partially hidden in an alcove. It looked like it led further into the house. He rushed over and pulled it open and found a dark stairway leading down into a cellar.

Except in the case of an artillery barrage, going underground was rarely a good idea when you were trying to evade capture. It was unlikely there would be any other exits from the cellar, so he would just be backing himself into a corner. And the cellar door would be the first place his pursuers looked after they stormed the kitchen and found it deserted.

There comes a time, however, in any operation, when you realize you’re out of options. Chapel had definitely reached that point. He hurried down the cellar stairs, trying not to make too much noise about it. Instantly he was plunged into darkness so profound he couldn’t see his artificial hand in front of his face. Taking just enough care to make sure he didn’t fall and break his neck, he dashed to the bottom of the stairs and tried to think of what to do next.

The cellar wasn’t completely lightless. A little bit of light from outside streamed in through a narrow window at the far end—just enough for Chapel to make out basic shapes. He saw rows of shelves, all of them laden down with things he couldn’t identify. He saw what looked like a workbench, covered in what he imagined were probably power tools. Nearly half the basement, though, was crammed full of big boxy shapes that were the right size for shipping crates. There were several dozen of them and they stood in towering stacks, some five and six high, and if you crawled in between them they would make an excellent, if rudimentary, maze.

The cellar door burst open even as Chapel was feeling his way over to the crates. Light burst down from above, blinding him again—a situation that only got worse when someone switched on the overhead lights.

Scurrying like a rat, Chapel shoved himself in between some of the crates, worming his way into the maze while making as little sound as he dared.

The stairs creaked and groaned as a whole squad of men came tromping down into the cellar. At least six of them, Chapel thought, though it was hard to tell. He did not poke his head around the side of the crates to find out.

“I’m not cleared to be down here,” someone said.

“Shut up,” came the reply. “He must be here. Right?” Chapel recognized that voice. It was Michael, the guard he’d knocked out and tied up in the billiards room. Apparently he’d been let loose. “He’s here,” Michael said. “I can feel it.”

“If he is, we can just wait him out,” a third voice suggested. This voice sounded hopeful, as if its owner really, really didn’t want to go rummaging around in the basement looking for Chapel.

“Spread out,” Michael said. “I want every corner of this place under constant observation. This guy’s got stealth training—if he slips past us while we’re down here, we’re all toast.”

He heard them shuffling about, then taking up positions. It sounded like they weren’t going anywhere.

Chapel tried very hard to control his breathing. His chest wound made him want to gasp for air. He didn’t think the gunshot had punctured his lung—if it had he would have been coughing up blood—but it had made every muscle in his chest contract in agony and squeeze against his rib cage. There was no way he could take on six men with just a carving knife. As wounded as he was, if even one of them got him with a lucky shot he would be down for the count.

If only he had some realistic way to fight back.

If only...

Sometimes God answers prayers, Chapel thought. Even if they aren’t submitted in the correct format.

He was wedged in between two wooden crates, with lettering stenciled on the side of one of them. He’d barely registered the Cyrillic before, and his Russian was a little rusty, but now he recognized the words painted right in front of his face:

The official Russian name for the world’s most popular assault rifle, more commonly known as the AK-47.