Chapter 13 - The Infiltration At Rhinebeck
On Sunday night, a thick, freezing fog rolled off the Hudson River, blanketing the rolling hills of Dutchess County in white mist.
Sarah parked the green sedan two miles down a dirt utility trail behind the forested boundary of the sprawling Wright family estate.
The manor was a colossal stone mansion surrounded by twelve-foot iron gates, infrared perimeter cameras, and private patrol vehicles.
On the eastern wing of the estate sat a separate, modern concrete structure: the private clinical annex Eleanor Wright had constructed years ago.
I sat in the passenger seat, my post-labor recovery finally settling into a dull, manageable ache, thanks to heavy ibuprofen and adrenaline.
In the back seat, safely strapped into a rear-facing infant car seat Sarah had purchased, my son slept soundly under three layers of fleece.
“You stay right here in the running car with the baby, Sarah,” I whispered, checking the zip on my dark utility jacket.
“Joanna, this is complete suicide,” Sarah hissed, grabbing my wrist. “You're three days out of a brutal labor! You cannot fight armed corporate guards!”
“I am not going in to fight them, Sarah. I am going in to pull the fire suppression system.”
I picked up a heavy iron flare gun and three high-intensity road flares Logan had stashed in his truck's roadside emergency kit.
“The minute the fire alarms trigger the municipal dispatch, the local volunteer fire department will breach those front gates with heavy axes.”
“When the sirens hit the driveway, the guards will scramble to clear the compound, and that's when Marcus Vance’s state contacts move in.”
“And what happens if you get caught inside the medical wing before the sirens sound?”
I looked back at my sleeping son, whose tiny chest rose and fell in perfect, innocent rhythm.
“If I get caught, Julian will bring me straight to Logan, which puts me exactly where I need to be.”
Slipping out of the passenger door, I moved like a ghost through the frozen brambles, keeping low against the stone estate wall.
The freezing night air bit into my cheeks, but every nerve ending in my body was firing with absolute, predatory focus.
I found the maintenance drainage culvert Logan had described in his journal notes, crawling through the damp concrete pipe under the iron fence.
Inside the perimeter, the grounds were patrolled by two security guards with leashed German Shepherds, their flashlights scanning the main lawn.
I waited behind a dense hedge of boxwoods until the patrol turned the corner toward the front gatehouse.
Sprinting across fifty yards of manicured turf, I reached the rear fire exit of the concrete clinical annex.
The heavy steel door was fitted with an electronic magnetic lock and an emergency exit push-bar on the inside.
I reached into my pocket, pulling out the small brass key Dr. Wright had handed me back in the delivery room before Julian breached the wing.
The key slid smoothly into the manual maintenance bypass slot beneath the digital reader; the lock released with a soft metallic click.
I slipped inside, pulling the heavy door shut behind me.
The clinical annex smelled of sterile bleach, rubbing alcohol, and expensive leather upholstery.
Soft fluorescent lights hummed overhead in the silent corridor, where private patient suites lined both sides of the hallway.
I crept down the carpeted hall until I heard the rhythmic, electronic beep of a vital sign monitor coming from suite 104.
I pushed the door open an inch, peering through the crack.
Strapped to an adjustable hospital bed, with an intravenous sedative drip running into his forearm, lay Dr. Robert Wright.
The old doctor’s eyes were half-open, glazed with heavy medication, his face bruised and swollen from an obvious physical struggle.
Sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, reading a corporate financial journal, was one of Julian’s suited mercenaries.
On the nightstand beside the bed rested an empty syringe and an ampoule of concentrated potassium chloride.
My stomach plummeted into cold, sickening terror.
Julian wasn't waiting until Monday morning to eliminate his father.
The lethal injection was already prepared; they were going to induce a fatal cardiac arrest before midnight tonight.
I stepped into the doorway, raising the iron flare gun with both hands and aiming it straight at the mercenary’s chest.
“Drop the magazine from your pistol and kick it under the bed,” I said, my voice steady, cold, and entirely devoid of fear.
The mercenary looked up in stunned disbelief, his hand freezing over the leather holster beneath his jacket.
“Joanna Vance…” he muttered, slowly measuring the distance between us.
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“You won't pull that trigger in an enclosed hospital room with pure oxygen lines running through the walls.”
“Try me,” I whispered, cocking the heavy hammer back with an audible click. “Let’s see how fast this room catches fire.”
