Chapter 6 - The Breach
At 0200 hours—exactly twenty-four hours after I had pulled Clara from the cage—the night sky over Connecticut was dark and moonless.
A eight-man State Tactical Unit crouched in the thick treeline bordering the eastern edge of the Vance estate. Rain was still falling, a steady, cold drizzle that masked the sound of our movements.
I stood at the front of the stack, dressed in dark tactical gear, night-vision goggles resting on my helmet. Beside me, the tactical team leader gave a thumbs-up signal.
"Thermal imaging shows three private security guards on the ground floor patio," the tech operator whispered through the comms earbud. "Two more in the main security office near the front gate. Victor Vance’s private helicopter is currently on standby at the Hartford helipad."
"They're preparing to run," I whispered into my mic. "Victor knows the net is closing."
"Move in," Sarah’s voice commanded over the tactical frequency from the Mobile Command Command vehicle half a mile down the road. "Execute clean capture."
We moved through the dark woods like ghosts.
I led the team past the secondary infrared sensors, utilizing the ground depression near the old drainage culvert I had mapped out during my first surveillance run. We cleared the treeline and moved rapidly along the stone wall of the estate's greenhouse, completely undetected by the private security guards under the covered patio.
As we reached the glass side doors of Richard’s private study, I signaled the team to hold.
Through the tinted, reinforced glass, I could see Richard Vance. He was wildly throwing armfuls of hard drives, leather folders, and bound documents into a heavy-duty industrial shredder set up on his mahogany desk. His face was slick with sweat, his expensive shirt unbuttoned at the collar, frantic energy radiating from every movement.
Standing beside him was his father, Victor Vance—a ruthless sixty-eight-year-old billionaire with silver hair, wearing a tailored three-piece suit, calmly speaking on a secure satellite phone.
"...I don't care about the publicity!" Victor was snarling into the receiver. "Get the jet prepped at Teterboro! We clear international airspace by dawn, or every judge I've bought in this state will be sitting in a cell next to us!"
I held up three fingers to the breacher beside me.
Three.
Two.
One.
FLASH-BANG!
The explosive breach blew the reinforced glass doors inward in a shower of tiny, harmless fragments. The flash-bang grenade detonated with a deafening, disorienting boom, illuminating the study in a blinding burst of white light and pressure.
"STATE POLICE! FEDERAL SEARCH WARRANT! DOWN ON THE GROUND! DOWN ON THE GROUND NOW!"
The tactical team swarmed the room, weapons raised, laser sights painting the walls.
Richard screamed, dropping to his knees, clapping his hands over his ears, weeping like a child as two state troopers pinned him to the Persian rug, clicking heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists.
Victor Vance, ever the arrogant sociopath, stood his ground, slowly lowering his satellite phone, glaring through the smoke at the tactical officers.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" Victor sneered, his voice trembling with rage. "I will have every single one of your badges by tomorrow morning! Call Sheriff Higgins immediately!"
I stepped through the smoke, pulling down my tactical face mask, letting the old billionaire see exactly who was standing in his shattered study.
May you like
Victor’s eyes widened as he recognized me. "You... the father..."
"Sheriff Higgins won't be helping you tonight, Victor," I said, walking up to the mahogany desk and switching off the industrial shredder mid-cycle, pulling a half-shredded financial ledger out of the intake teeth. "Federal agents took Higgins into custody twenty minutes ago at his home. He's currently singing like a canary to save his own skin."
