Chapter 8 - The Infiltration of the Estate
The cliffside steps leading from the boathouse to the main gardens were steep and overgrown with wild blackberry brambles.
For three years, nobody had maintained the lower paths because Reagan Dennis considered the waterfront “an unnecessary draft.”
Camden moved with silent efficiency, his frail body fueled by adrenaline and raw vengeance.
I stayed half a pace behind him, watching the perimeter fence for the black uniforms of Vanguard Shield guards.
At the top of the stone stairs, two guards stood smoking beside an auxiliary generator trailer.
Both wore tactical tactical earpieces and carried sidearms in drop-leg holsters.
“Miller radioed ten minutes ago,” one guard muttered, flicking his cigarette butt into the ornamental bushes.
“The lawyer’s office went up like a Roman candle, but they didn't find Dennis’s body in the rubble.”
“Miller thinks the kid broke through the perimeter before the fire caught.”
“Who cares?” the second guard laughed.
“Carter Vance wired twenty-five grand into our personal accounts this afternoon just to stand here and look professional for the European suits.”
“By midnight, Carter signs the papers, Dennis Logistics becomes Apex Global, and we all get retention bonuses.”
“The kid can't even get past the front gate without being turned into Swiss cheese.”
Camden didn't hesitate.
He slipped behind the first guard like a phantom born of the lake fog.
Before the man could turn, Camden drove the heavy handle of his iron wrench directly into the nerve cluster behind the guard’s ear.
The man collapsed into the mulch without making a sound.
The second guard gasped, reaching for his sidearm, but I was already moving.
I lunged forward, grabbing his wrist with both hands and twisting it downward with the leverage I had learned inside the yard at Oakwood.
His pistol clattered against the generator frame.
I drove my forearm into his throat, pinning him against the metal housing until his eyes rolled back and his knees buckled.
We dragged both men behind the generator housing, bound their hands with their own zip-ties, and confiscated their radio transceivers.
I took the second guard’s earpiece and clipped it into my ear.
Static crackled over the tactical channel, followed by Carter’s voice speaking with tight, nervous authority:
“Miller, report. Have you found the kid yet?”
A voice heavy with coughing answered from the street frequency.
“The office is completely gutted, Carter.”
“The fire chief says two people escaped down a utility drain before the ceiling collapsed.”
“They’re in the wind.”
“Find them!” Carter hissed through the earpiece.
“I have the German buyers sitting at the head table right now.”
“The contracts are being printed on the second floor.”
“If Finnley Dennis shows his face near this property before the signatures are dry, execute him on the spot and blame it on an armed burglary!”
“Do you hear me? Kill him!”
Camden looked at me, hearing the audio leak through the plastic earpiece.
“The second-floor study,” Camden whispered, his voice dangerously calm.
“That’s where they’re keeping the master contracts.”
“They took my mother’s old library and turned it into their corporate slaughterhouse.”
We skirted the edge of the glass pavilion, staying low beneath the boxwood hedges.
Inside the tent, hundreds of well-dressed guests were laughing, raising crystal flutes of champagne beneath glittering crystal chandeliers.
Reagan Dennis stood in the center of the room wearing her emerald-green gown, adorned with diamond necklaces bought with stolen shipping profits.
She was laughing heartily with Dr. Bradley Vance, who looked pristine in a custom tuxedo, his silver hair slicked back with pompous elegance.
They looked like the king and queen of Silver Lake society.
Beside them stood Carter, glancing repeatedly at his gold wristwatch, sweat glistening at his temples despite the cool autumn breeze.
He was counting down the minutes to midnight.
He was waiting to steal eighty million dollars and leave his mother holding the bag for a federal life sentence.
“The servants' entrance behind the kitchen pantry,” Camden whispered, tugging my sleeve.
“The lock is an old deadbolt.”
“I installed it when you were six years old to keep the dogs out of the pantry.”
We slipped along the shadow of the stone foundation until we reached the low wooden door near the herb garden.
Camden produced a small pick from his pocket, worked the cylinder for three seconds, and pushed the door inward.
The house smelled different now.
The familiar warmth of cedar and old books had been eradicated, replaced by the pungent odor of expensive chemical floor waxes, industrial lilies, and French perfume.
We climbed the back service staircase, avoiding the squeaky fourth step that I had skipped every night of my childhood.
At the top of the landing, the door to the master study was guarded by a single man in a dark business suit.
Detective Miller.
He had abandoned the downtown fire scene and come straight to the house to protect his twenty-million-dollar payoff.
He had his back to us, talking on a cellular phone while staring through the window at the party below.
“I don't care what the fire department says, Harold Hayes had an offline backup drive,” Miller was growling into the receiver.
“If that drive gets into the hands of the state attorney general, you and I are both going to maximum security, Carter.”
Camden stepped onto the landing.
“Miller,” Camden said softly.
Detective Miller spun around, reaching for his service weapon with wide, terrified eyes.
“What the—”
The detective froze as if he had just seen the devil himself crawl out of the earth.
The blood drained completely from Miller’s face, leaving him pale as chalk.
“C-Camden?” Miller stammered, his fingers trembling against the leather of his holster.
“You’re dead... Vance buried you... I saw the certificate...”
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“You saw a piece of forged paper bought with thirty pieces of silver, you crooked bastard,” Camden Dennis said, leveling the .38 revolver directly at Miller’s chest.
“Take your hand off that weapon before I put a hole through your badge.”
