Chapter 10: Lockdown in the East Wing
The crystal chandeliers of the mansion's main ballroom hummed with the strained wattage of an overloaded grid as the foundation gala reached its peak. Down in the East Wing, however, the lights were dead.
I crouched behind the massive mahogany desk in the estate's private archive room, my tactical flashlight clicked off, relying entirely on the pale moonlight filtering through the high leaded windows. The soft, rhythmic click-clack of a pneumatic lock disengaging echoed down the vaulted stone hallway outside.
They hadn't waited for the end of the gala. Cole and his inside partner had made their move while the guests were gathered in the central courtyard for the fireworks display.
The heavy archive door swung inward with a faint groan of oiled hinges. Two figures stepped into the room, their silhouettes dark against the pale window light. The leading man held a heavy leather briefcase in one hand and a suppressed sidearm in the other, his movements efficient, rehearsed.
"Hurry up," a voice hissed—a voice I recognized instantly from the board meetings. It was Arthur Vance’s successor, municipal treasurer and board vice-chair David Sterling. "The security reboot will ping in three minutes. If we don't have the trust papers, Evelyn's audit will expose every missing cent."
"The safe is empty," a second voice muttered—Marcus Cole, stepping up to the wall-mounted biometric panel with a portable override box. "Someone's already cleared the primary compartment."
"Looking for these?" I asked.
I stepped out from the deep shadow of the towering map cabinets, the silver-plated casing of the archive's heavy brass doorstop resting securely in my right hand.
Cole spun around, his weapon jerking upward toward my chest. I didn't give him the half-second needed to acquire his target. I closed the distance in two explosive strides, swept his armed wrist upward against the doorframe with a sharp crack of bone and steel, and drove the heavy brass doorstop straight into his solar plexus.
Cole collapsed silently onto the Turkish rug, gasping for air as the suppressed pistol clattered across the polished oak floorboards.
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David Sterling froze, his briefcase slipping from his fingers to scatter loose trust documents across the floor. He stared at me with wide, terrified eyes, his mouth working wordlessly as he realized the entire trap had just snapped shut on the wrong side of the door.
From the end of the dark hallway, the rapid, echoing clip of Julian’s dress shoes rang out against the stone, accompanied by the bright, steady beam of security flashlights flooding the wing in crisp, unrelenting white.
