Chapter 2 - THE REAR BREACH
The downpour intensified, turning the thick forest floor into a churning sea of mud and wet pine needles.
I parked my F-250 deep in the woods along Old Mill Road, cut the engine, and stepped out into the storm. Rain splashed against my leather jacket, but I didn't feel the cold. The adrenaline coursing through my veins burned like liquid fire.
Twelve years in the Army taught you how to move through heavy cover without making a sound. Twelve years in forensic investigations taught you that every rich man who builds a fortress always leaves one gap created by his own vanity.
For Richard Holloway, that gap was his automated greenhouse.
To keep his wife’s imported orchids alive year-round, the estate had a dedicated three-phase industrial electrical feed running through an exposed brick sub-station located forty yards behind the carriage house.
I reached the ten-foot wrought-iron perimeter fence surrounding the rear of the Holloway property. The top was lined with decorative spears and motion-tracking camera pods.
I pulled a pair of heavy-duty insulated wire cutters from my tool belt. Instead of cutting the iron bars—which would trigger an automated perimeter loop alarm—I knelt down in the mud near the base of the eastern support pillar. The soil was loose from the heavy rain. Using my tire iron, I dug out a fourteen-inch trench beneath the bottom rail, slid on my stomach through the wet mud beneath the fence, and popped up inside the dark shadows of the boxwood hedges.
I paused, holding my breath, listening.
The continuous hum of the estate’s massive central HVAC unit masked the sound of my movement. Above me, the mansion rose into the gray night sky like a modern stone castle—three stories of granite, dark glass, and unearned wealth.
I checked my watch: 22:22 hours. Marcus and the State Police unit were ninety seconds from the front gates.
I darted across the open lawn, keeping my body low, staying within the dark shadows cast by the stone fountain, until I reached the back of the brick sub-station.
The main breaker panel was locked with a heavy brass padlock. I didn't waste time trying to pick it. I inserted the flat edge of my steel tire iron between the latch and the brick frame, braced my shoulder against the wall, and levered my whole weight forward.
CRACK.
The brass latch snapped like dried pine. The metal door swung open, revealing the massive copper conduits and industrial circuit breakers that powered the entire four-acre compound.
I grabbed the thick rubber handle of the master service disconnect switch.
"This is for the 'discipline,' Grant," I muttered to the darkness.
I slammed the handle down.
THUNKER-CLACK!
A bright blue spark erupted from the contacts, followed by the deep, dying groan of the estate's central generators.
Instantly, every light in the main mansion, the garage, the carriage house, and the security perimeter vanished. The dark estate was plunged into total, absolute blackness, save for the faint yellow glare of the emergency backup battery strips over the emergency exits.
In the distance, the automatic front security gates—now deprived of their primary power source—stalled halfway through their opening cycle, forcing them into a mechanical neutral state.
At that exact second, three black state police SUVs roared up the front driveway, their high-beam headlights blinding the front windows as Marcus Vance’s voice bellowed through an external bullhorn:
"STATE POLICE! WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY ENTRY WARRANT! STAY INSIDE AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!"
Shouts and panicked cries immediately broke out inside the front foyer of the mansion.
While Grant and his father rushed to the front windows to scream at the police officers through the locked glass, I pulled my heavy tactical flashlight, clicked it to low-lumen red light, and stepped up to the unlocked rear service entrance near the kitchen.
I slipped through the heavy steel door without a sound.
The smell inside was expensive—expensive mahogany polish, expensive candles, and the faint, bitter tang of spilled bourbon.
I moved down the service corridor like a ghost, avoiding the squeaky hardwood edges, keeping my weight centered on my toes. I passed the dark kitchen, where two house staff members were huddled together in fear, holding their cellphones up as flashlights.
"Don't move, don't scream, and stay where you are," I said, my voice low and authoritative as I passed the doorway. The two staff members gasped, freezing in place as if commanded by an army general.
I reached the grand central staircase.
Above me, on the second-floor landing, I heard the rapid, panicked slapping of bare feet against marble, followed by a harsh, whispered argument.
"Where is the key?!" Grant’s voice hissed from the dark hallway upstairs. "Where did you put the key to the nursery suit?!"
"I have it!" Vivian’s voice shrieked back softly. "Grant, the police are at the front door! They say they have an exigent warrant! How did they get a warrant so fast?!"
"Shut up and open the door!" Grant growled. "We move her to the storm shelter right now! If the cops see her face, we’re all going to federal prison!"
My heart turned into a pounding anvil against my ribs.
I didn't take the stairs one by one. I leaped up the marble steps three at a time, my heavy boots thundering down the grand staircase like a battering ram hitting a wooden gate.
Grant turned toward the staircase, flashing his blinding phone light into my face. "Who’s there?!"
May you like
I didn't answer. I didn't give him time to raise a weapon.
I emerged from the darkness of the landing like a freight train out of a tunnel.
