Chapter 5 - Infiltration
Midnight. Rain washed over the high stone perimeter walls of the Prescott estate.
From a tree canopy overlooking the northern fence, I adjusted my night-vision monocular. Below me, two guards armed with submachine guns completed their sweep along the gravel path before turning the corner toward the main motor court.
"Thermal feed is clear for thirty seconds, Colonel," Sarah’s voice crackled through my bone-conduction earpiece. "I’ve looped the security cameras on the north wing for the next four minutes."
"Moving now," I whispered.
I dropped quietly from the branch onto the grass inside the compound, crouched low, and moved like a shadow along the manicured hedges. Vance provided overwatch from a sniper position on the ridge across the street, his long-range optic monitoring the compound’s perimeter.
I reached the ground-floor French doors leading into Richard Prescott’s private library. Using a diamond-tipped glass cutter, I made a clean circle in the pane, reached through, and disarmed the handle lock from the inside.
The room was dark, smelling of expensive leather, aged scotch, and cigar smoke. Large oil portraits of Prescott ancestors lined the mahogany paneling.
I moved directly to the floor safe hidden behind the painting of the family crest.
"Sarah, I’m at the vault," I whispered.
"I’m running the frequency bypass tool on their digital keypad," Sarah replied. "Hold the receiver against the lock mechanism."
I pressed the small electronic bypass device against the keypad. Seconds ticked away into excruciating silence. Outside, heavy footsteps echoed on the terrace. A flashlight beam swept across the ceiling of the library.
I dropped behind the heavy mahogany desk, pulling my silenced sidearm, holding my breath as the guard paused at the glass doors, checked the handle, and slowly moved on.
Click.
The safe door swung open. Inside lay stacks of untraceable bearer bonds, offshore passports, and a heavy platinum chain attached to a black hardware security key.
I reached in and grabbed the key.
Suddenly, the overhead chandelier flooded the room with brilliant, blinding light.
"I wondered how long it would take you to show up, Colonel," a voice rasped from the doorway.
I turned slowly.
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Standing at the double doors was Richard Prescott himself—an elderly man with cold blue eyes, impeccably dressed in a silk smoking jacket, holding a pearl-handled revolver pointed directly at my chest. Beside him stood Daniel and Catherine, surrounded by four heavily armed private contractors.
"You're trespassing, Victoria," Richard said, his voice smooth, devoid of any warmth. "And in North Carolina, we have very clear laws regarding home intruders."
