Chapter 2 - BREACHING THE GATES
The iron gates of the Caldwell estate loomed ahead at the end of a private, tree-lined cul-de-sac.
The property was a colossal stone mansion built in the French Neoclassical style, shielded from the road by mature oak trees, thick boxwood hedges, and a tall stone security wall topped with discreet infrared sensors. High-definition security cameras rotated slowly on black posts, tracking Richard’s truck as he turned onto the driveway.
He slowed the F-250 to a stop ten feet from the heavy wrought-iron gates.
A small speaker box mounted on a stone pillar crackled with static. A automated security voice chimed: “Private Property. Unauthorized vehicles will be towed. State your name and purpose.”
Richard checked his watch: 1:21 p.m. Exactly seventeen minutes had passed since Emily’s phone had cut out.
"Vance, I’m at the gate," Richard muttered into his bluetooth headset.
"Hold for two seconds, Colonel..." Marcus replied over the line. "Bypassing their primary firewall... uploading corrupt firmware packet to the gate's actuator... now."
CLICK-HUMMMMM.
The heavy iron gates suddenly unlocked, swinging wide open into the courtyard. The security cameras on the stone posts drooped downward, their lenses going dead as Marcus’s cyber-attack wiped the estate’s local network clean.
"You have six minutes before the backup cloud system detects the network outage and pings the local police," Marcus warned. "Get in there, Colonel."
Richard slammed his foot on the gas. The F-250 roared through the opened gates, its heavy tires tearing across the pristine white gravel driveway, coming to a sliding stop right in front of the grand marble portico.
Richard stepped out of the truck, leaving the driver's door wide open. His hand rested firmly on the grip of the Sig Sauer concealed beneath his jacket.
The front courtyard was deathly quiet. A black Porsche911 and a pristine Range Rover were parked in the circular drive—Ethan was home.
Richard strode up the grand stone steps to the massive, double oak front doors. He didn't bother knocking. He grabbed the heavy brass handle and pulled.
It was locked from the inside with an electronic smart bolt.
Without breaking stride, Richard stepped back, raised his right leg, and slammed his heavy tactical boot directly into the lock mechanism beside the door handle.
CRACK-SPLINTER!
The reinforced oak frame shattered into flying wooden splinters, the heavy door bursting inward and crashing against the marble foyer wall with a deafening boom that echoed through the eleven-thousand-square-foot mansion.
Richard drew his sidearm, holding it in a low-ready position, his eyes sweeping the cavernous entrance hall.
"EMILY!" Richard’s voice boomed through the house—a deep, command-presence roar that shook the crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling.
Silence answered him.
Then, from the top of the grand sweeping staircase on the second floor, a soft, pathetic whimpering sound drifted down.
"Dad...?"
Richard’s blood ran cold.
He moved up the marble staircase two steps at a time, his boots hitting the treads with rhythmic, lethal purpose.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway opened into a massive master wing lined with expensive oil paintings and hardwood floors. Sitting against the wall near the master bedroom door was his thirty-two-year-old daughter.
Emily’s hair was matted with sweat. Her clothes were torn at the collar. Her left eye was already swollen shut, purple and red bruises blooming across her cheekbone, and a trail of blood dripped from her split lip onto her pale blue sweater.
She was clutching her right arm against her ribs, hyperventilating in sheer, blinding terror.
"Emily!" Richard dropped to one knee beside her, re-holstering his gun, his large, calloused hands gently framing her battered face. "Emily, look at me. It’s Dad. I’m here. I’ve got you."
"Dad..." Emily sobbed, leaning her forehead against his chest, her entire body shaking violently. "He... he took my phone... he hit me... he said if I tried to leave, he’d kill you..."
Richard felt an ancient, terrifying rage surge through every vein in his body, but his face remained a mask of pure steel. "Where is he, sweetheart?"
Before Emily could answer, a door at the far end of the hallway clicked open.
Ethan Caldwell stepped out onto the hardwood floor, holding a glass of scotch in one hand, his designer silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
May you like
He looked completely relaxed, a smirk playing across his handsome, youthful face.
"Well, well," Ethan said softly, taking a slow sip of his drink. "If it isn't the retired Colonel breaking into my home. You know, Richard... breaking and entering is a felony in the state of Tennessee. I could shoot you right now and the police would give me a medal."
