Chapter 143 - The Surface Incursion
I ascended the iron maintenance ladder three rungs at a time, kicking open the false stone trapdoor that blended into the manicured slate patio behind the infinity pool. The winter wind hit me like a frozen fist, bringing with it the acrid stench of burning aviation fuel and the high-pitched whine of turbine engines.
The scene on the snow-covered lawn of Whispering Pines was straight out of an active warzone.
Three matte-black, unmarked transport helicopters sat idling on the pristine white snow, their rotor wash whipping pine needles and pulverized ice into blinding squalls. Twelve private military contractors in sterile, unmarked tactical gear formed a perimeter, heavy carbines raised, pinning the grand log-and-glass facade of my stolen home in crossfires.
In the center of the terrace, kneeling on the flagstones where just hours ago they had been toasting my financial ruin with crystal flutes, were Arthur and Clara.
My father looked utterly broken, his expensive cashmere sweater stained with grease and mud, his silver hair wild and disheveled. He was weeping openly, clutching an open leather briefcase full of fraudulent real estate contracts and promissory notes to his chest as if the papers could shield him from high-velocity rounds.
Clara, on the other hand, was hysterical. Her silk designer coat was torn at the shoulder, her mascara running in dark streaks down her pale, horrified face. A tall, broad-shouldered mercenary clad in high-altitude combat gear held her by the scruff of her neck, shoving her face directly toward a ruggedized tactical terminal resting on an overturned patio table.
"I don't know the password!" Clara shrieked, voice cracking into a shrill sob. "I swear to God, Arthur handled the deeds! Marcus is the one with the military clearance! Call Marcus! He paid for the house! He spent a hundred and ten thousand dollars on us last month, he'll give you whatever you want—just let me go!"
"Shut her up," barked the man standing over them.
He didn't wear a helmet. His hair was cropped military-close, graying at the temples, a jagged scar cutting across his left cheekbone down to his collar. Colonel Thomas Vance—a cashiered naval intelligence officer who had disappeared from the Pentagon's radar six years ago, presumed dead in the Philippine Trench.
"Arthur Vance-Caldwell," the Colonel said coldly, tapping a combat boot against my father's ribs. "Your bloodline was registered in the NAVSEA deep-reserve vaults thirty years ago when Eleanor bought this tract of land. Place your palm on the scanner, or I paint this patio with your daughter's brains."
"It's my house!" Arthur blubbered, tears freezing on his cheeks. "The county clerk signed off on it! Clara owns the title! You can't just take it—Marcus, where are you?! Marcus, protect your family!"
May you like
"Marcus isn't here to pay your debts, Arthur," I said, stepping out from the shadow of the stone chimney, the muzzle of my rifle leveled dead center at Vance's chest. "And you gave away my house an hour before you realized it was sitting on your grave."
***
