Chapter 12 - The Estate Gates And The Hidden Tracker
The GPS ping on Adrian's encrypted dashboard screen blinked steadily, tracing a northbound route toward the sprawling, heavily wooded outskirts of the county. The signal was coming from a small silver fob tucked discreetly inside the lining of Isabella's wooden music box—a precaution Adrian had insisted upon installing the night we first met at the diner.
"We're three miles out," Adrian said, his hands locked hard on the steering wheel of the sedan as we tore down the winding two-lane highway. The high beams cut through the dense fog rolling off the river, casting long, erratic shadows across the asphalt. "The property belongs to one of Preston's shell corporations. It's an old estate surrounded by wrought-iron fencing and private security patrols."
"She's only seven years old," I repeated, the words a jagged prayer as I stared out the passenger window, watching the dark silhouettes of pine trees blur past. "She doesn't even know what any of this is about. Why would they target a child?"
"Because Preston is desperate, and desperate men make catastrophic mistakes," Adrian replied, his voice hard as iron. He downshifted smoothly, the engine roaring as we took a sharp curve that led directly toward the estate's private service entrance. "When we get inside, you stay behind me. I'll clear the path, but you grab Isabella and don't look back."
"I'm not hiding while you walk into a trap," I shot back, turning in my seat to face him. "She's my family, Adrian."
He glanced sideways, meeting my gaze for a fraction of a second. The fierce, protective stubbornness in his dark eyes mirrored my own. "I know she is. That's why we do this together. Ready?"
The wrought-iron security gates loomed out of the fog ahead, closed but unlatched—a hurried oversight by whoever had brought Isabella to the compound. Adrian didn't hesitate. He accelerated, ramming the front bumper of the sedan squarely against the left gate hinge. The iron groaned, snapping with a metallic shriek as the barrier swung wide open.
We tore up the long, crushed-stone driveway, tires throwing gravel against the manicured boxwood hedges. The main house was a sprawling brick manor with towering Palladian windows, glowing faintly against the pitch-black night. Adrian killed the headlights fifty yards from the main entrance, cutting the engine so the car coasted silently into the shadows of a massive weeping willow.
"The signal is coming from the rear conservatory," Adrian whispered, unbuckling his seatbelt and drawing a small, matte-black secure radio from his coat pocket. "Let's move."
We slipped out into the freezing night air, the wind whipping my hair across my face as we skirted the perimeter of the manor. Every sense was dialed to a razor edge, the distant crunch of our boots on the gravel sounding deafening in the stillness. We rounded the stone corner of the east wing, where a set of French doors opened out onto a glass-enclosed garden room filled with towering ferns and wrought-iron benches.
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Through the clear glass panes, I saw her. Isabella sat huddled on a green velvet settee, her pale blue dress wrinkled, clutching her music box so tightly her knuckles were white. Standing over her with a cold, condescending smirk was a tall man in an expensive navy suit—one of Preston's senior fixers.
Adrian didn't knock. He raised his boot and drove it straight into the glass lock mechanism of the French doors.
