Chapter 7 - Blood on the Granite
A spray of automatic gunfire raked across the basalt entrance of Vault 77, sending stone chips flying like shrapnel. Finch returned fire with two thunderous blasts from his 12-gauge shotgun, forcing the gunmen to dive behind the heavy steel support columns.
"Down the chute! Go!" Finch roared, racking another round.
Thomas shoved Evelyn through the narrow escape hatch, which led to an iron staircase spiraling down into the churning harbor surge below. Clara grabbed the handles of the primary bond trunk, hauling its incredible weight toward the threshold.
"Clara! Watch out!" Evelyn screamed from below.
A figure burst through the swirling drywall smoke. Julian Vance. His tailored suit was torn, his hair wild with sweat, his eyes bulging with manic desperation. In his right hand was a nickel-plated semi-automatic pistol.
"Drop the bag, you little parasite!" Julian screamed, leveling the barrel straight at Clara’s forehead. "You think you're clever?! You think an old man and a dying mutt can take what's mine?! I spent ten years kissing that bastard's boots while he gave everything to you!"
Clara froze. The gun was three feet from her face. She could smell the gunpowder and the whiskey on Julian’s breath.
"You killed my father," Clara said, her voice freezing the air between them. "Richard paid the mechanic to sink the *Sea Gull*. Grandfather had the confession, Julian. The FBI is downloading it right now."
Julian’s face twitched. A psychotic smirk spread across his lips. "You think I care about twenty years ago? By morning, I’ll be in a country without extradition, Clara. But you won't be here to read the headlines."
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Barnaby didn't hesitate.
With a deep, guttural roar that shattered thirteen years of docile silence, the elderly golden retriever launched himself from the shadows. All seventy pounds of muscle, instinct, and Arthur Vance’s legacy slammed directly into Julian’s chest.
Julian shrieked in horror as Barnaby’s jaws clamped onto his right forearm, tearing the gun from his grip. The weapon skittered across the polished basalt and fell into the open escape hatch, disappearing into the dark waters below.
"GET IT OFF ME! SHOOT IT!" Julian screamed, thrashing against the floor as Barnaby pinned him with the ferocity of a wolf.
"Barnaby, OFF!" Clara commanded, lunging forward.
Julian brought his left hand up, brandishing a concealed tactical combat knife. The blade glinted in the emergency red lights. "DIE, YOU FUCKING MUTT!"
"NO!" Clara screamed.
She grabbed the heavy, solid-brass vault key from her belt—six inches of solid metal—and drove it with all her weight directly into Julian’s collarbone.
A sickening crunch echoed through the chamber. Julian shrieked, dropping the blade, his arm going limp as the bone shattered under the impact. He curled into a fetal position on the bloody floor, weeping and hyperventilating.
Barnaby backed away, standing squarely between Clara and her fallen cousin, his breathing heavy, blood dripping from his muzzle—none of it his own.
Finch fired one last suppressing round down the corridor and slammed the primary vault blast door shut, spinning the manual wheel until the steel pins locked tight.
"That'll hold the rest of them for twenty minutes," Finch panted, his face blackened by soot. "Take the dog and get out of here, Ms. Vance. Your grandfather’s boat is waiting."
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Clara grabbed Barnaby’s collar, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Come, boy. We're going home."
***
