Chapter 4 - Midnight Operation
The Fairbanks night was pitch black, the temperature plunging to twenty-eight below zero as Detective Vance’s unmarked sedan crept up the snow-packed driveway of the Carver estate.
The sprawling stone-and-timber mansion loomed against the dark spruce forest, looking entirely peaceful and innocent from the outside. But I knew the rot that lived beneath its polished hardwood floors.
Vance killed the engine, cutting the headlights. The car idled quietly in the shadows of the heated portico.
“All right, here’s the protocol,” Vance whispered, turning around in his seat to look at Rosalind and me. “I am acting in an official capacity to assist a citizen in retrieving personal property. However, if Alaric’s private security company dispatches a patrol unit, we have exactly twelve minutes before local backup arrives. We move fast, we stay focused, and we don't touch anything that isn't related to the financial records or Fallon’s personal items.”
I unlocked my wheelchair, locked the brakes, and hoisted myself out of the seat and into the passenger footwell, pulling my legs up behind me. Rosalind helped me transfer into a lightweight folding transport chair we’d brought along for the mission.
“I’ve got your back, kiddo,” Rosalind whispered, squeezing my shoulder.
Using Rosalind’s master key, we slipped through the heavy oak side door leading into the mudroom. The familiar scent of cedar, floor wax, and expensive espresso machine coffee hit me instantly. Every muscle in my body tensed as I remembered the last time I’d been in this house—the shouting, the terror, the sudden violence of being shoved through a glass window.
“Deep breaths, Fallon,” Vance murmured, checking the corridor with a compact tactical flashlight. “Clear.”
We navigated the dimly lit hallways, avoiding the main staircase where motion-activated security cameras were wired directly to Alaric’s smartphone. Rosalind knew the architectural blind spots of the house better than the security system did; she led us through the butler's pantry and down the private corridor toward Alaric’s home office.
The heavy mahogany double doors of the office were closed.
Vance tried the handle. Locked.
“Stand back,” Rosalind whispered. She reached into her parka pocket, pulled out a small leather pouch, and extracted a set of professional tension wrenches and pick tools.
I stared at her in utter astonishment. “Rosalind? Where on earth did you learn how to pick a lock?”
She didn't look up from the keyhole, her fingers working with practiced, rhythmic precision. “Your grandfather was a master locksmith before he got into real estate. He believed every independent woman should know how to open any door she encounters.”
With a soft click, the internal mechanism gave way.
Vance pushed the door open, sweeping his flashlight across the spacious, book-lined room. Leather armchairs, a massive oak executive desk, and behind the mahogany shelving units, the faux-wood paneling board concealing the wall safe.
“You’re up, Fallon,” Vance said, wheeling me across the Persian rug.
I wheeled myself right up to the bookcase, my heart hammering against my ribs. I reached out with my right hand—still stiff and aching from the tendon injury—and slid the decorative wood paneling aside.
There was the digital keypad safe.
Alaric’s mother, Eleanor, had been born on October 12, 1948.
I punched in the sequence: 1-0-1-2-4-8.
The heavy steel door emitted a sharp, electronic beep, and the green LED light flashed.
“Bingo,” Vance breathed, shining his flashlight directly into the interior cavity.
Inside sat stacks of cash, a passport, legal deeds, and—most importantly—three thick leather-bound ledgers with handwritten accounting notes.
I reached in and pulled the ledgers out. I flipped open the top volume, scanning the columns of numbers. My breath caught.
“Look at this,” I whispered, holding the page up to the flashlight beam.
Vance leaned in, reading the entries. “Holy hell. These aren't just cooked books. This is a double-entry accounting ledger detailing every single bribe paid to municipal zoning inspectors, every inflated inventory valuation submitted to Sterling Health Network, and a running tally of the three-million-dollar bridge loan diverted into Alaric’s personal offshore accounts.”
“It’s the smoking gun,” Rosalind said triumphantly.
I grabbed the remaining two ledgers and shoved them into the canvas tote bag I had resting on my lap.
Suddenly, a loud, piercing alarm shrieked through the house.
Red emergency strobe lights began flashing near the ceiling.
“Damn it!” Vance cursed, slapping his hand against his tactical belt. “The safe must have a secondary silent-to-audible tamper circuit tied to the master security panel. We’ve got less than three minutes before private armed security arrives!”
“Move, move, move!” Rosalind urged, grabbing the handles of my wheelchair and spinning me around toward the office door.
May you like
We raced down the hallway, our tires squeaking against the polished hardwood floors. As we reached the mudroom exit, the security gate outside the property slammed shut with a heavy metallic clang, and the blinding headlights of an armored patrol SUV swept across the frosted windows.
“They’ve locked the perimeter gates!” Vance yelled, drawing his service weapon and checking the magazine slide. “We’re trapped!”
