Chapter 3: The Fortress
The drive to the Sterling Estate took twenty minutes. I drove the lead car, the van following close behind.
The estate was imposing, a monstrosity of stone and iron gates designed to keep the world out. Or to keep secrets in. It sat on ten acres of manicured lawn, surrounded by a twelve-foot wall.
I pulled up to the intercom.
“Delivery for Mrs. Sterling,” I said, my voice quavering just enough.
“Leave it at the gate,” a security guard barked.
“Oh dear, it’s perishable. And heavy. My back isn’t what it used to be. Please, young man.”
A pause. Then the buzz of the gate unlocking. Amateurs.
I drove up the winding driveway. The house loomed ahead, dark windows staring like empty eye sockets. I parked my car askew, blocking the main exit path. The van pulled onto the grass, flanking the entrance.
I walked up the steps to the massive oak front door. I didn’t ring the bell. I smoothed my windbreaker over my vest and waited.
The door opened.
Beatrice Sterling, Richard’s mother, stood there. She was a woman carved from ice and old money, wearing silk and diamonds at three in the afternoon. She looked at me with the kind of disdain usually reserved for gum on a shoe.
“Evelyn?” she sniffed. “We didn’t expect you. Sarah is indisposed. She has a migraine.”
I stepped forward, invading her personal space.
“I heard her call, Beatrice. Step aside.”
Beatrice laughed, a cruel, high-pitched sound that grated on my nerves. She placed a hand on her hip, blocking the view inside.
“She is a married woman now, Evelyn. This is a private family matter. You can’t just barge in here because she had a little argument with her husband. Go home, knit something. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
She started to close the heavy door.
I caught it with one hand. I didn’t push; I just held it immobile. Beatrice frowned, pushing harder, but the door didn’t budge.
I stared at her. I let her see the eyes of the woman who had interrogated warlords in the Hindu Kush.
“Not anymore,” I replied.
I raised my left hand, a simple signal.
From the manicured hedges and the shadows of the elm trees, three red laser dots appeared simultaneously on Beatrice’s chest. One on her heart. Two on her lungs.
Beatrice froze. Her mouth opened in silent terror, her eyes darting down to the dancing lights on her silk blouse.
“Who… who are you?” she stammered, her voice trembling.
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t there to explain.
I raised my boot and delivered a kinetic breach kick to the door, right next to the lock mechanism.
CRACK.
The wood splintered. The lock shattered. The door flew inward, knocking Beatrice backward onto the marble floor.
I stepped over her, pressing my earpiece.
“Clear the rooms,” I commanded. “Ghost, take the upstairs. Tex, Viper, secure the basement and the perimeter. I’ll take the ground floor.”
The foyer was grand, filled with art that cost more than my house. But beneath the smell of lemon polish, I smelled something else.
Fear. And bleach.
Chapter 4: The Kitchen
I moved through the living room, clearing corners. Empty.
I followed the smell of bleach down the hallway toward the kitchen.
I pushed the swinging door open.
The sight stopped me cold. For a second, the Iron General faltered, and the mother screamed inside my head.
Sarah was on her hands and knees.
She was scrubbing the grout between the white tiles. The water in the bucket beside her was pink. The rag in her hand was stained red.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll get it out,” she was murmuring, a broken mantra of survival.
Her face… my beautiful girl’s face was swollen beyond recognition. Her left eye was swollen shut, purple and black. Her lip was split wide open. Her arm was at an odd angle, favoring her side.
She didn’t look up when I entered. She flinched, curling into a ball, expecting a blow.
This wasn’t a marriage. It was a torture camp.
Richard stood in the corner near the pantry. He was holding a kitchen towel, wiping his hands. He looked annoyed, like he was dealing with a stubborn stain rather than a battered human being.
“She fell,” Richard said quickly, his eyes widening as he took in my appearance—the vest, the gun, the cold fury. “She’s clumsy. You know how she is.”
I didn’t look at him. I walked over to Sarah and knelt down on the wet, bloody floor.
“Sarah,” I whispered.
She froze. She turned her head slowly, her good eye widening.
“Mom?” she breathed. “You… you shouldn’t be here. He’ll… he’ll hurt you. He has a gun.”
I gently touched her shoulder. She was trembling so hard her teeth chattered.
“Stand down, soldier,” I whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her bloody forehead. “The war is over.”
I stood up. I turned to Richard.
He sneered, trying to regain his bravado, trying to muster the arrogance of a man who has never faced consequences.
“Get out of my house, you crazy old hag,” he spat. “Or I’ll call the cops. I’ll have you arrested for breaking and entering!”
I unholstered my Sig Sauer. The metal clicked loudly in the silent kitchen.
“The police act on laws, Richard,” I said, raising the weapon. “I act on consequences.”
Richard’s eyes went to the butcher block on the counter. A steak knife lay there.
“Don’t,” I warned.
