Chapter 115 - The Cold Room in Newport
The Thorne estate in Newport sat atop a rocky promontory overlooking the gray expanse of the Atlantic, an imposing granite fortress built during the Gilded Age by men who believed their wealth placed them above human law.
At eleven-fifteen, Liam cut our unmarked utility van's engine two hundred yards down the private coastal lane, cloaked behind a thick hedge of dripping yew trees.
"Perimeter check," Vance muttered from the front seat, peering through a set of high-resolution digital binoculars. "Four private security guards on the main terrace. Heavily armed, executive protection types. Eleanor isn't taking chances. She knows her extraction team at the Spire failed."
I checked the screen of my tactical tablet. "Victoria has fifteen minutes."
Liam reached across the console, his warm fingers closing over mine. The tension in the vehicle was thick enough to choke on. "Maya, once we go through those gates, this isn't a legal battle anymore. Eleanor has demonstrated that she will kill anyone who threatens her freedom. If things go wrong—"
"Things won't go wrong," I said, meeting his eyes with an unshakable calm that surprised even myself. "For seven months, I ran. I doubted my own memories. I let her make me feel small, crazy, and discarded. But that woman didn't just steal money; she destroyed my father. She tried to erase me. I am walking out of that house with the truth, or I'm not walking out at all."
Liam stared at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Understood."
At eleven-thirty precisely, the perimeter floodlights along the stone wall flickered once, twice, and died. On Vance's tablet, the external camera feeds transformed into static snow.
"Victoria did it," Vance said, racking the slide of his sidearm. "Perimeter grid is dark. We have eight minutes before the backup generator kicks in."
We moved through the fog like shadows. Vance bypassed the secondary iron pedestrian gate using a digital bypass clone, and within ninety seconds we had crossed the manicured lawn, slipping into the servant's entrance on the estate’s western wing.
The interior of the mansion smelled of polished mahogany, beeswax, and lavender—the exact scents of my childhood. But the silence inside was suffocating, broken only by the low hum of distant server racks and the muffled murmur of a voice echoing down the marble hallway from my father’s former study.
May you like
Eleanor was speaking.
"...the funds must clear before the wire window closes," her voice floated through the cracked oak doors. "Once the offshore entity confirms the deposit, prepare the vessel. Neither of them can be allowed to speak to the authorities."
