Chapter 6 - The Iron Gates
The rain fell in sheets, washing over the windshield of Sheriff Callahan’s cruiser as he sped down the winding country road toward Vance Manor.
His phone buzzed relentlessly on the center console. Five missed calls from the Chief of Police. Three from the County Commissioner. He didn't answer a single one.
Clara’s revelation played on a loop in his mind. The land trust. Clara’s late father had owned nearly ten thousand acres of timberland and mineral rights in the valley—land Julian Vance desperately needed for his multi-billion-dollar commercial corridor project. But the trust had been structured with ironclad stipulations: the land could only pass to a living descendant, controlled jointly until the child came of age.
Julian didn't want a family; he wanted an asset. And Clara was simply the biological obstacle in his way.
Callahan pulled up to the perimeter of the Vance estate. The massive wrought-iron gates were already wide open, tire tracks churning the gravel drive into thick mud. Up on the hill, the silhouette of the mansion was lit up from the inside—not with warm lights, but with the stark, moving beams of industrial flashlights.
Julian’s cleanup crew was already at work.
Callahan killed his headlights, gliding the patrol car onto the grass beneath a canopy of weeping willows. He unholstered his service Glock, checked the chamber with a quiet click, and snapped it back into the holster. Slipping the tiny silver capsule into his inner vest pocket, he stepped out into the pouring rain.
The air smelled faintly of gasoline and wet leaves.
Moving through the shadows of the hedges, Callahan approached the side terrace. Through the tall French doors, he could see three men in dark tactical gear methodically stripping the private study. Paintings were cut from their frames; hard drives were being ripped from server towers and dropped into black pelican cases.
Standing in the center of the room, calmly supervising the operation with an unlit cigar between his lips, was Julian Vance.
"Burn the desk files," Julian commanded, his voice muffled by the thick glass. "Leave the antique clock intact. The insurance will cover the structure fire. Make it look like an electrical fault starting from the sub-panel."
Callahan knew he had less than ten minutes before the evidence was reduced to ash.
He didn't have a search warrant. If he kicked down that door right now, any evidence he seized would be tied up in suppression hearings for years by Julian’s high-priced legal team.
He needed to get into that safe, pull the hard drive, and get out without triggering an open firefight that would leave him dead in the woods.
As he circled around the conservatory toward the rear service door, the headlights of another vehicle swept across the driveway.
May you like
A sleek black town car pulled to a stop. The door opened, and an umbrella unfurled. Stepping out into the storm was the one person Callahan never expected to see here tonight.
Eleanor Vance.
