Chapter 13 - The Gates of Granite
The heavy iron gates swung inward with a prolonged, agonizing screech of frozen hinges that cut through the mountain storm.
The three SUVs rolled through the opening, tires slipping slightly on the untreated packed ice of the private driveway.
The spruce trees stood on either side like silent, dark sentinels shrouded in white sheets of snow.
Every fifty yards, discreet motion-tracking cameras mounted on wooden poles pivoted smoothly, tracking our approach.
Victor’s private security detail knew we were inside the perimeter.
Yet no shots were fired from the tree line.
No tactical roadblocks barred the winding asphalt path.
Uncle Victor was not a common street thug who hid behind drive-by shootings and panicked violence.
He was an aristocrat who viewed conflict as an intellectual chess match between gentlemen.
He would wait for us on his own ground, in his own chair, surrounded by his own portraits.
The driveway terminated at the grand circular courtyard before the main house.
Blackwood Ridge loomed against the gray sky like a medieval castle carved from gray mountain granite.
Heavy slate shingles lined the steep roofs, and long icicles hung from the carved stone gargoyles along the eaves.
The massive front doors of carved oak and black iron were standing wide open.
A warm, amber light spilled out across the snow-covered flagstones of the terrace.
Gio signaled the two trailing SUVs to establish a defensive perimeter around the circular fountain.
Eight trusted security operators from our estate detail deployed into the snow, their weapons held across their chests, scanning the upper balustrades.
"Thermal scan shows three heat signatures on the ground floor," Evelyn reported, checking her handheld tablet.
"One in the central library."
"Two stationary guards in the adjoining conservatory."
"No biological signatures detected on the upper floors."
"Wait here with Evelyn, Gio," I said, stepping out of the vehicle into the freezing air.
The cold bit through my wool trousers instantly, but my senses remained razor-sharp.
Gio caught my arm, his dark eyes fierce with protective loyalty.
"I am not letting you walk into that stone tomb alone, Logan," Gio growled.
"He killed Daniel."
"He will not hesitate to put a bullet in your head."
"He won't shoot me on the threshold, Gio," I replied quietly.
"Victor has waited three years to see the finished result of his masterpiece."
"He wants to look into my eyes."
"Keep your men at the perimeter."
"If you hear gunfire, breach the conservatory and secure the underground laboratory entrance."
I pulled Daniel’s journal from my vest, gripped it firmly under my left arm, and walked up the broad stone steps.
My boots made no sound against the thick Persian runner lining the grand entry hall.
The interior of Blackwood Ridge smelled of aged cedar, beeswax, pipe tobacco, and woodsmoke.
A crackling fire roared inside the massive fieldstone hearth of the great hall.
Mounted stag heads and oil paintings of deceased Vance ancestors stared down from the two-story paneled walls.
At the end of the long gallery, the double doors of the private library stood ajar.
I walked toward the opening, my footsteps deliberate and measured.
Inside the library, thousands of leather-bound volumes lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
A green banker’s lamp cast a soft, emerald glow over a massive mahogany partner's desk.
Sitting behind the desk in a high-backed burgundy leather wing chair was Victor Vance.
He wore a rich burgundy cashmere cardigan over an ivory silk shirt, his silver hair neatly combed back from his high forehead.
A pair of gold reading spectacles rested on the bridge of his thin, aristocratic nose.
Beside his elbow sat a fine porcelain cup of steaming Earl Grey tea and an open leather folio of legal documents.
Standing ten feet behind him, partially hidden in the shadows of the conservatory archway, were two private security contractors in tactical sweaters.
Both men had their hands resting casually on the grips of holstered sidearms.
Victor did not reach for a weapon.
He did not look surprised.
He carefully set down his gold fountain pen, removed his spectacles, and placed them atop the open documents.
Then, he lifted his hands into the air and began to form deliberate, slow shapes in American Sign Language.
"WELCOME HOME, LOGAN," his fingers formed with patient, condescending affection.
"I EXPECTED YOU TO ARRIVE WITH THE FEDERAL CONVOY."
"YOU ALWAYS HAD YOUR FATHER'S RECKLESS TEMPERAMENT."
I stood five paces from his desk, looking down at the wrinkled, elegant face of my grandfather’s brother.
I reached up with both hands, slowly pulled the silicone dampeners from my ears, and dropped them onto the corner of his mahogany desk.
The small rubber plugs landed with a faint, rubbery tap that echoed in the quiet room.
Then, I looked Victor directly in his cold, gray eyes and spoke aloud.
May you like
"You can put your hands down, Uncle Victor."
"The silence is over."
