Chapter 23 - The Siege of Sycamore Lane

Caleb’s response didn't come through the front door. It came from the rooftop balustrade.

High above the portico, illuminated by the sweep of the intrusion floodlights he had just re-routed to battery reserves, Caleb stood looking down at his former father-in-law.

"The Chicago judge was disbarred forty minutes ago, Richard," Caleb announced, his voice echoing over the roar of the surf below the cliffs. "The federal marshals intercepted your courier at O'Hare with two million dollars in unregistered bearer bonds. Your injunction is toilet paper."

Richard Montgomery’s face turned scarlet beneath his silver hair. He gestured sharply to his lead contractor, a scarred mercenary with cold, mechanical eyes. "Breech the foyer. Grab the children. Leave the boy broken if he resists."

The contractor raised a tactical battering ram, charging toward the heavy oak entrance.

*BOOM.*

A blast of heavy rock salt tore into the gravel six inches in front of the contractor’s boots, showering his tactical trousers with stinging shrapnel. Down on the ground-floor side window, Tori had shattered a storm pane, the smoking barrel of the shotgun resting steadily against the sill.

"Next one takes off your kneecap!" Tori yelled, her eyes blazing with fierce, maternal fury. "You take one step on that porch and you’ll leave Sycamore Lane in an ambulance!"

The contractors hesitated, instinctively dropping into defensive crouches. These men were paid handsomely for intimidate-and-snatch operations, not sustained firefights against heavily fortified estates with armed occupants.

"You fools, she’s a schoolteacher bluffing with birdshot!" Richard roared, losing his composure. "Flank the kitchen! Get the kids through the patio doors!"

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Two men broke toward the back terrace, where the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the cliff edge. But before they could even reach the iron gates, the distant rumble of high-displacement diesel engines began to shake the ground.

Tearing up the winding gravel curves of Sycamore Lane came Arthur’s custom armored Suburban, escorted by two black-and-gold state trooper cruisers, their cherries and blueberries strobing against the pine trees like a localized thunderstorm.