Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Gibson Island
The rain had intensified into a torrential downpour by the time night fell over the Chesapeake Bay. Black waves slapped furiously against the hull of our small, unlit fiberglass boat as Tobias navigated through the dense fog surrounding Gibson Island.
We were dressed in black tactical wetsuits, our faces painted with dark grease. In my waterproof thigh holster sat a silenced 9mm pistol and an encrypted flash drive containing the digital copies of Garrett’s financial ledger and the toxicological analysis of the thallium milk Tobias had saved over the last six months.
"The tide is rising," Tobias whispered over the comms earpiece as he killed the boat's electric motor fifty yards off the island's rocky eastern shoreline. "We have forty-five minutes before the security patrol rotates at the boat house."
"I know the route," I replied, pulling my night-vision goggles over my eyes. "Follow my lead."
We slipped into the freezing bay water, swimming silently beneath the surface until we reached the timber pylons supporting Arthur Vance’s private yacht dock. Above us, glowing warmth and soft classical music spilled from the windows of the three-story brick mansion overlooking the water.
We pulled ourselves up through the sub-dock drainage hatch, slipping into the dark rose garden behind the main estate. Through the tall French doors of the grand ballroom, I could see dozens of wealthy guests dressed in tuxedoes and evening gowns, sipping champagne under crystal chandeliers.
Standing near the marble fireplace was Garrett. He had swapped his soaked river clothes for a custom-tailored Italian suit. Beside him, Penelope wore a shimmering emerald gown, her small baby bump barely visible beneath the silk fabric. They were clinking glasses with an elderly man sitting in an leather wheelchair—Arthur Vance.
Seeing Arthur in that wheelchair made my blood run cold. The man who had forced my brother into a fake paralysis for fifteen years was now using one himself to garner sympathy from his wealthy peers.
"Look at them," I whispered to Tobias, who was crouched beside me behind a dense boxwood hedge. "It's a family of vultures."
"Garrett is moving toward the study on the west wing," Tobias observed through his tactical binoculars. "He's with Donald Vance and two of your board members—Harold Jenkins and Marcus Vance. They're going to sign the preliminary asset transfer documents before the board meeting tomorrow."
"They're executing the transfer tonight?" My blood spiked. "If those papers are signed and uploaded to the corporate registry, Garrett legally acquires voting control before sunrise."
"We move now," Tobias said, drawing his weapon. "I'll take out the security feed in the main circuit room down the hall. You get inside that study."
"Tobias," I held his arm for a brief second. "Be careful."
"Rosalind," he looked at me, his dark eyes fiercely protective. "I spent fifteen years sitting in a chair waiting to protect you. Nobody touches my sister again."
He melted into the darkness toward the basement service entrance. I took a deep breath, checked my sidearm, and slipped up the stone steps toward the study's exterior terrace doors.
The rain masked the sound of my glass-cutter as I etched a neat circle into the window pane beside the latch. I reached inside, flipped the brass handle, and stepped silently into the dim, mahogany-paneled room.
Garrett was standing behind his father's oak desk, a fountain pen in his hand, leaning over a thick stack of legal documents. Harold Jenkins and Marcus Vance were standing beside him, holding glasses of scotch.
"Once this signature is finalized," Garrett was saying, his voice oozing arrogant satisfaction, "the Vance Maritime dockyards in South Baltimore will be liquidated and transferred to Sterling Holdings by Monday morning. The insurance payout from Rosalind's death will cover the remaining debt on the river project."
"A shame about Rosalind," Harold Jenkins mused, taking a sip of his drink. "She was a brilliant administrator. Her father would have been proud."
"Rosalind was weak," Garrett said coldly, lowering his pen to the paper. "She believed every lie I told her. She actually thought I loved her. She died in that river thinking her precious husband was coming back to save her."
"I wouldn't sign that if I were you, Garrett."
May you like
My voice cut through the quiet room like a razored blade.
Garrett froze. The fountain pen hovered a millimeter above the paper. Slowly, he turned his head toward the dark terrace doors where I stood, my silenced pistol raised, pointed directly at the space between his eyes.
