Chapter 3 - Shadows on the West Wing
The key turned in the lock with a faint, greasy click.
I held my breath, resting my forehead against the cool wood of the door, listening for any sign of movement in the master bedroom. Nothing. Only the distant, muffled sound of classical string music drifting up from the grand ballroom on the first floor.
I pushed the door open an inch.
The master bedroom was empty. The bed was made, the crisp white duvet ruined by a few stray spots of crimson that Vance had tracked across the carpet. Through the open door of the master bathroom, I could see the damp floor where the housekeeper had hastily scrubbed the blood away, leaving behind a faint pink haze on the white subway tiles and the shattered frame of the vanity mirror hanging crookedly on the wall.
I slipped out of the closet, keeping my back pressed against the wall.
Every step was a physical ordeal. My left ankle was badly sprained, forcing me to put all my weight on my right side. My vision swam with dark spots whenever I took a breath that was too deep.
I crept toward the hallway.
Downstairs, the party was in full swing. I could hear the chime of wine glasses, the fake laughter of Dallas high society, and Arthur Vance’s booming, confident voice delivering a toast to the board members.
"To growth," Arthur’s voice echoed up the grand foyer. "To family. And to absolute discretion."
I turned away from the balcony, moving toward the west wing corridor.
The west wing was where Arthur kept his private study and the home’s primary security hub—a windowless room containing the servers, the high-definition camera feeds, and the master override panel for the estate's steel perimeter gates.
If I could reach that panel, I could drop the main gate power grid, allowing Marcus’s tactical vehicles to breach the estate without crashing through armed resistance.
I reached the end of the corridor. The heavy mahogany door to the study was slightly ajar. A single desk lamp cast long, amber shadows across the Persian rug.
I took a step forward—and stopped.
Sitting at the mahogany desk, his back turned to the door, was Donald—Arthur Vance’s chief of personal security. He was a massive man with a scarred neck, wearing a dark suit with a concealed shoulder holster visible beneath his jacket.
He was monitoring three screens. One screen showed the front gate; another showed the ballroom; the third showed the long winding driveway leading up from the highway.
On the third screen, three dark SUVs with blacked-out windows were approaching the front gate at forty miles an hour. No sirens. No lights.
Donald leaned forward, his brow furrowing as he zoomed in on the lead SUV.
"Front gate," Donald said into his radio headset. "We have three unidentified vehicles approaching the main entrance. They aren't on the guest list. Intercept them at the gate."
I didn't think. I couldn't afford to.
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I grabbed a heavy bronze statue of an eagle resting on a side table near the hallway door.
I stepped into the room, my bare, bloody feet making no sound on the thick rug, and brought the bronze statue down with all the strength left in my broken body straight onto the back of Donald’s head.
