Chapter 17 - Bloodlines and Deceit
The cold predawn air hit Ethan like a physical blow as he wheeled himself out of the estate's service entrance onto the gravel path.
The grounds of the Vance estate, usually illuminated by dozens of manicured landscape floodlights, were swallowed in pitch darkness. The main mansion loomed above like a hollow stone carcass, its windows black and dead against the violet hue of the morning sky.
Michael jogged beside him, carrying the heavy courier envelope under his arm. They had met the courier at the secondary service gate, cutting through the iron padlock with the maintenance tools Chad had foolishly left behind.
"Here," Michael whispered, handing the thick, cream-colored parchment to Ethan as they took shelter beneath the stone portico of the carriage house.
Ethan broke the heavy red wax seal. The stamp bore his father's personal signet ring—an eagle gripping an hourglass.
Inside were two documents. The first was written in Thomas's distinct, hurried handwriting, dated two days before his fatal "heart attack."
*Ethan,*
*If you are reading this, it means you survived the crash, you activated V-17, and Chad finally did what I always knew he would do—destroyed the mainframe to hide his crimes.*
*Forgive me, little brother. The night on the canyon road, I wasn't fast enough. Catherine had paid the transport company to park that flatbed across the bridge. When I saw you approaching that blind turn, I had only three seconds to make a choice: let you hit the truck at eighty miles an hour, or ram your rear quarter to spin you into the brush. I broke your spine, Ethan. I took your legs to save your life. I have spent every waking second since that night living in a hell of my own making.*
*Catherine poisoned our father. She did it slowly, with synthetic cardiac peptides that mimic congestive heart failure. I found the vials in her private vanity three weeks after the funeral. When I confronted her, she laughed in my face. She told me that Arthur had already drafted a codicil excluding her entirely, but that she had paid the probate registrar to bury it.*
*The codicil in the greenhouse is real. But it is not just a financial document. It contains our father's sworn deposition regarding Chad's parentage. Chad is not Arthur Vance's son. He is the biological son of Marcus Sterling—the very judge Catherine has bought to seal the probate today.*
*Arthur knew. He kept them close to gather the financial evidence to strip them of every cent. But his heart gave out before he could strike.*
*Ethan, the board meeting at nine o'clock is an ambush, but it is also your only battlefield. Do not go to the police. Marcus Sterling controls the county bench. You must go directly to the five institutional share-holders before the opening bell. Show them the bloodline certification. Under Section 14 of the Vance charter, an illegitimate heir who attempts to alter succession forfeits all family trusts to the sole surviving biological bloodline.*
*You are the only true Vance left.*
*Take back what our father built.*
*Your brother,*
*Thomas.*
Ethan's hands were completely still as he folded the letter and slid it into his coat pocket. The pain in his legs, the phantom ache that had haunted him for three long years, seemed to vanish, replaced by an absolute, icy focus.
"Michael," Ethan said softly.
"Yes, Ethan?"
"Where is the van holding Brooke?"
Michael pointed toward the northern carriage house, fifty yards across the dark lawn. The faint red glow of cigarette embers pulsed near the double wooden doors. Two armed private guards were standing watch.
"We can't take them, Ethan," Michael whispered nervously. "They have automatic weapons. We don't have the element of surprise anymore."
Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, secondary transmitter he had salvaged from the vault console before Chad destroyed it.
"We don't need a weapon," Ethan said. "My father built this entire estate on automated hydraulic lines. That carriage house wasn't built for cars, Michael. It was built as the primary stables, retrofitted with industrial fire-deluge systems."
Ethan pressed the transmitter's override switch.
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Fifty yards away, the carriage house roof exploded with hundreds of gallons of pressurized, chemically treated fire-retardant foam, burying the two guards under a violent torrent of suffocating white chemical slush.
***
