Chapter 8 - The Midnight Transmission
The telephone on the mahogany desk began to ring, its sharp, mechanical bell shattering the suffocating air of the library.
It rang once.
It rang twice.
Neither Garrett nor Laura moved toward the receiver.
Celeste looked up with wild, desperate hope shining in her swollen eyes.
“That’s him,” she pleaded, gasping for breath.
“That’s my father.”
“Answer it, Garrett!”
“Tell him everything is fine, tell him the contracts are safe!”
“If you don't answer, his security convoy will breach the perimeter with assault rifles!”
Garrett slowly exhaled a plume of smoke and pointed at the receiver with the tip of his cigar.
“Answer it, Laura,” Garrett commanded softly.
Laura stepped to the desk, lifted the heavy black handset, and placed it to her ear without a word.
The voice on the other end was rough, gravelly, and saturated with nicotine and arrogance.
“Celeste, why the hell isn’t the southern gate open?” Arthur Vane barked through the static-filled wire.
“The customs inspector took the ten-thousand-dollar envelope, but he’s only giving us until one in the morning to move the freight.”
“Where is Hardwick?”
“Did you get his signature on the deed transfer or do we need to do this the hard way?”
Laura paused for two calculated beats, letting the background hum of the estate speak for itself.
“Mr. Vane,” Laura said, her voice smooth, level, and entirely devoid of fear.
The line went dead silent for three long seconds.
“Who the hell is this?” Arthur Vane growled, his voice sharpening with immediate suspicion.
“Where is my daughter?”
“Put Celeste on the phone right now or I’ll have four carloads of men tear that front door off its hinges.”
“Your daughter is currently indisposed on the library floor,” Laura replied with clinical detachment.
“She suffered a severe fracture to her mandibular joint.”
“An occupational accident involving the household staff.”
In the background, Celeste screamed toward the desk, trying to project her voice into the receiver.
“Daddy! They know! They found the journal! Kill them—”
Before she could finish the sentence, Garrett stepped forward and pressed his leather shoe firmly onto the hem of her gown, pinning her to the floor without expending an ounce of effort.
“Listen to me very carefully, Arthur,” Garrett said, leaning over the desk so his baritone carried directly into the mouthpiece Laura held.
“For eighteen months, you made me believe my sister died of a weak heart and excessive gin.”
“For eighteen months, you sat at my dinner table, ate my beef, and drank my vintage cellars while your daughter picked out wedding silver.”
“All the while, you were siphoning sixty million dollars of harbor freight through my sister's stolen docks.”
On the other end of the line, Arthur Vane’s heavy breathing turned into a low, vicious snarl.
“You don't have the stomach for what comes next, Hardwick,” Arthur snarled.
“You inherited an empire built by your grandfather, but you went soft.”
“You thought you could run this city with lawyers, ledgers, and polite society dinners.”
“I run the piers with grease, lead, and men who don't ask questions.”
“My convoy is at the foot of your driveway right now.”
“You sign those transfers, or neither you nor that clever little maid will see the sunrise.”
Garrett did not raise his voice by half a decibel.
“Bring every man you have, Arthur.”
“The driveway is waiting for you.”
Garrett reached out and clicked the receiver cradle down, severing the connection in mid-threat.
He turned his eyes back to Laura Beckett.
“You knew this was coming when you took the maid's apron, didn't you?” Garrett asked.
“I did,” Laura replied, setting the phone down.
“Then you know my perimeter security is compromised.”
“I do,” Laura said.
“Your chief of security took a down payment on a condominium in Boca Raton from Arthur Vane six weeks ago.”
“The four guards at the southern lodge will not fire a single shot when the trucks arrive.”
Garrett looked at her for a long moment, a grim, admiring shadow passing over his features.
“And what about you, Commander Mercer?” Garrett asked.
“Are you here to watch the Hardwick dynasty burn down to the foundation?”
Laura reached behind her back and unfastened the apron ties, letting the starched white fabric fall to the floor.
Beneath the apron, her gray uniform was cinched with a reinforced nylon tactical belt, complete with a tactical utility knife and two spare magazines.
“I promised Clara two things before she died,” Laura said, her voice dropping into pure steel.
“First, that the woman who poisoned her would pay for every drop.”
“Second, that the man who built the fortress around her would face the truth of what he allowed inside.”
“Your sister didn't want this house burned down, Garrett.”
May you like
“She wanted the vermin cleared out of the cellar.”
“Now give me the combination to the armory in the basement.”
