The Club Attack

The Club Attack
Selena's POV
The music stopped.
That's the first thing I noticed when the bomb went off. One second, the bass was pounding through the nightclub floor. The next second, silence. Then screaming.
The explosion threw me across the VIP booth. My ears rang. Smoke filled the air. Glass rained down from the chandelier above.
"Dad!" I screamed.
Through the chaos, I saw him crawling toward me. Blood ran down his face from a cut on his forehead.
"I'm okay!" he yelled back. "Where's David?"
I looked around frantically. The bomb had gone off near the main entrance. Tables were flipped over. People were running everywhere. Some weren't moving at all.
Then I saw him. David was fighting three men in black masks. Even injured from the blast, he moved like a ghost. One attacker fell. Then another.
But more men kept coming through the smoke.
"This way!" David shouted to us. He pointed toward a back exit.
Dad grabbed my hand. We started running through the destroyed club. Behind us, gunshots echoed through the building.
"How many are there?" I asked.
"Too many," Dad replied.
A masked man jumped out from behind the bar. He had a gun pointed right at me.
David appeared from nowhere. His knife found the man's throat before he could pull the trigger.
"Keep moving!" David ordered.
We reached the back exit. David tried the door. Locked.
"Stand back," he said.
He shot the lock. The door swung open. We rushed into the alley behind the club.
That's when the second bomb went off.
The force knocked us all to the ground. The entire back wall of the club crumbled. Fire shot out through the broken windows.
"My people," Dad whispered. "All my people were inside."
I helped him stand up. "We have to go. Now."
David was already checking the alley. "Three cars blocking both ends. We're trapped."
"The sewers," I said.
"What?"
"There's a sewer entrance behind that dumpster. I used it to sneak out when I was sixteen."
David looked skeptical. "You're sure it connects to the street?"
"Trust me."
More gunshots came from inside the burning club. Whoever was attacking us wasn't done.
David moved the dumpster. Sure enough, there was a metal grate covering a sewer entrance.
"I can't fit through there," Dad said.
"You have to," I replied. "It's the only way out."
David pulled the grate open. "I'll go first. Make sure it's safe."
He dropped down into the darkness. A few seconds later, his voice echoed up:
"It's clear. But we need to move fast. Water's rising."
Dad went next. I could hear him struggling to squeeze through the narrow tunnel.
Then it was my turn.
I dropped into the sewer just as the third bomb exploded.
The tunnel shook. Concrete dust fell from the ceiling. The water was already up to our knees and getting higher.
"Which way?" David asked.
I tried to remember. It had been ten years since I used this escape route.
"Left," I said. "I think."
We sloshed through the dirty water. The sound of our movements echoed off the tunnel walls. Above us, I could hear sirens. Fire trucks and ambulances arriving at the club.
"How many people were in there tonight?" I asked Dad.
"Forty. Maybe fifty."
"All your business partners."
"All my friends."
His voice broke on the last word. These weren't just business meetings for Dad. These were people he'd known for decades. People who trusted him.
And now they were dead.
"This is my fault," he said.
"No, it's not," I replied.
"I called the meeting. I chose the location. I put them all in danger."
David stopped walking. "Enzo, this isn't your fault. Someone wanted to send a message."
"What message?"
"That nowhere is safe. That they can reach anyone, anywhere."
We kept walking through the tunnel. The water was getting deeper. Soon it would be over our heads.
"There," I pointed ahead. "I can see light."
We reached another grate. This one opened to a storm drain on Fifth Street. David climbed up first, then helped Dad and me out.
We emerged six blocks from the club. In the distance, we could see the orange glow of the fire. Black smoke rose into the night sky.
"We need a safe place to figure out our next move," David said.
"My apartment," I suggested.
"Too obvious. They'll be watching it."
"The warehouse where we met Vance?"
"Compromised."
Dad pulled out his phone. "I know a place. Old church on the east side. Father Martinez owes me a favor."
As he dialed, David grabbed my arm.
"Selena, we need to talk."
"About what?"
"About who knew we'd be at the club tonight."
My stomach dropped. "You think someone told them."
"The meeting was planned three days ago. Only five people knew the location."
"Who?"
"Your father. Me. You. Marco."
"Marco's dead. Vance killed him at the warehouse."
"That's four people. Who's the fifth?"
I thought back to the planning meeting. Dad, me, David, Marco, and...
"Mom," I whispered.
"Your mother knew about tonight."
"But she's on our side now."
"Is she?"
The question hit me like a punch to the stomach. Was Mom really on our side? Or was she still working some angle I didn't understand?
Dad finished his phone call. "Father Martinez will meet us at the church. He's bringing medical supplies."
"We need to go," David said. "But first, Selena, call your mother."
"Why?"
"To see if she answers."
With shaking hands, I dialed Mom's number. It rang once. Twice. Three times.
"Hello?" Mom's voice.
"Mom, where are you?"
"At the safe house. Why? You sound scared."
"Someone bombed the club. Forty people are dead."
Silence on the other end.
"Mom?"
"I'm here. Are you safe?"
"For now. But whoever did this knew about the meeting."
"How is that possible?"
"We don't know. Can you meet us at St. Michael's church?"
Another pause.
"Of course. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
She hung up.
David was staring at me. "What did you notice?"
"She didn't ask which club."
"And?"
"She didn't sound surprised that people were dead."
Dad looked confused. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying your wife might not be the ally we think she is."
We walked toward the church in silence. Each of us lost in our own thoughts. Each of us wondering who we could trust.
The church sat on a corner lot surrounded by empty buildings. Most of the windows were boarded up. The neighborhood had seen better days.
Father Martinez was waiting for us at the side entrance. He was a small man with kind eyes and gray hair.
"Enzo, my friend. I'm sorry about what happened."
"Thank you, Father. We need sanctuary."
"Of course. Come inside."
The church was dark except for candles near the altar. Our footsteps echoed in the empty space.
"I have medical supplies in the back room," Father Martinez said. "And some food."
"We're expecting one more person," I told him.
"Your mother," David added, watching my face.
Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty. Then forty.
Mom never showed up.
"Try calling her again," Dad said.
I dialed the number. This time it went straight to voicemail.
"Her phone is off," I reported.
David pulled out his laptop. "Let me check something."
He typed quickly. Security camera feeds appeared on the screen. Cameras from around the city.
"There," he said, pointing to one feed.
The image showed a black car parked outside Mom's safe house. Two figures got out and walked to the building.
One figure was Mom.
The other was Detective Vance.
"That's impossible," Dad said. "Vance is dead. I killed him at the warehouse."
David rewound the footage. The timestamp showed the recording was from two hours ago.
Two hours after Vance was supposed to be dead.
"Either you didn't kill him," David said slowly, "or that wasn't really Vance at the warehouse."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we might have killed the wrong person."
My phone buzzed. Text message from an unknown number:
Hello, daughter. Sorry I missed our meeting. But I've been busy planning your funeral. See you soon. -Mom
Below the message was a photo.
It showed the inside of St. Michael's church.
It showed us.
Taken from outside.
Someone was watching us right now.
"We need to go," David said urgently. "Now."
But as we ran toward the exit, the front doors burst open.
Armed figures in black masks poured into the church.
Father Martinez fell first. Then the lights went out.
In the darkness, someone grabbed my arm.
"This way!" a voice whispered.
But I couldn't tell if it was David's voice.
Or someone else's.
A gunshot echoed through the church.
Someone screamed.
Then everything went silent.
When emergency lighting flickered on, I found myself alone.
No David. No Dad. No attackers.
Just me and a pool of blood on the church floor.
And a note pinned to the altar:
Your real mother sends her regards.