Chapter 8 - The Arlington Estate
Victor Sterling’s private estate in Arlington sat behind a twelve-foot stone wall draped in ivy, guarded by motion sensors, infrared cameras roving the perimeter, and private security patrols driving golf carts along the manicured gravel pathways. To any ordinary intruder, it was an impenetrable fortress. To a former tier-one Army Ranger who had breached high-value targets in Kandahar and Mogadishu, it was a playground with broken glass on the floor.
I parked my rental car two miles away, walked through the dense woods bordering the estate's northern edge, and scaled the stone wall at a blind spot between two security cameras. My movements were silent, practiced, and invisible.
True to his word, Sterling had left the rear security gate unlocked for his men. I slipped through the iron bars and melted into the shadows of the massive oak trees surrounding the main colonial-style mansion. Warm yellow light glowed from the second-floor study windows.
I made my way to the rear patio glass doors. They were locked, but a diamond-tipped glass cutter made short, silent work of the pane near the latch. I reached inside, flipped the thumb-turn, and stepped into the house.
The interior smelled of expensive leather, aged bourbon, and polished mahogany. I moved up the grand staircase like a wraith, my boots making no sound on the thick oriental runner.
When I reached the second-floor landing, I heard voices coming from the open door of the master study.
"...incompetent fools," Victor Sterling was saying, pacing across the room in a tailored silk bathrobe, holding a crystal glass of scotch. "They should have cleaned up the scene properly instead of leaving the girl half-alive. If Julian gets wind of this before we leave the country..."
"Julian won't do anything, Victor," a soft, familiar female voice replied from an armchair near the fireplace.
My breath caught in my throat. I stepped silently into the doorway and looked inside.
Sitting in the leather armchair, sipping a glass of wine, was Detective Vance's partner—the rookie cop who had interviewed me at the hospital. Except she wasn't a rookie cop. Her name was Elena Vance, and she was Sterling's chief corporate counsel and internal security liaison.
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"The local police are chasing a phantom green sedan toward the interstate," Elena smiled coldly, swirling her wine. "By the time Julian figures out who directed the hit, we'll be in Zurich with the offshore accounts fully transferred."
"You underestimate Julian," I said from the doorway.
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