Chapter 38 - Operation Mercer Island
The old Sutton estate sat on a jagged promontory overlooking Lake Washington, its once-manicured lawns now choked with dead winter brambles and surrounded by chain-link security fencing bearing bright orange FEDERAL PROPERTY – NO TRESPASSING signs. The sky above was a heavy, bruised violet, threatening snow before nightfall.
We didn't try to scale the main gates. Instead, we parked our sedan half a mile down the winding coastal road, slipping through a gap in the perimeter fence where the dense cedar forest met the property line.
The air was dead and freezing. The mansion itself looked ghostly in the fading twilight—its grand Palladian windows dark and vacant, the slate roof coated in a thin layer of frost.
“According to Caleb’s letter,” I whispered, keeping our voices low as we navigated the shadow of the East Wing terrace, “the micro-cassette is embedded in the mortar behind the main library hearth.”
“The brickwork was modified during the 2008 renovation,” Tessa recalled, scanning the exterior stone foundation with her high-lumen tactical flashlight. “My father helped draft those architectural changes before... well, before everything fell apart.”
We slipped in through a warped side service door that had been left unlatched by the demolition crew. The interior of the mansion smelled of damp plaster, dust, and abandonment. The grand crystal chandeliers were gone, stripped by the receivership, leaving raw electrical wires dangling from the vaulted ceilings like dead vines.
The library was a cavernous ruin. The floor was littered with plaster dust, shards of broken drywall, and discarded soda cans left by the contractors. Against the far wall stood the massive, two-story riverstone fireplace where Richard Sutton used to host his private, high-stakes poker nights.
“Here,” Tessa said, kneeling down beside the hearth and shining her flashlight against the lower corner stone.
The mortar around the third stone from the floor was a slightly different shade of gray—newer, softer, patched over with amateur precision.
I pulled a compact pry bar from my backpack, sliding the flat steel edge into the hairline crack between the stone and the hearth base. “Hold the light steady.”
With a sharp grunt, I leaned my weight into the tool. The old mortar groaned, crumbling into white powder before popping free with a hollow, echoing snap. The heavy stone slab shifted inward, revealing a dark, square cavity carved deep into the brickwork behind it.
Inside sat a small, weather-sealed metal cassette case wrapped in oilskin.
I reached in, pulling it out into the dim light of the flashlight. My heart hammered against my ribs—not out of fear, but from the sudden, stark realization that we were holding the final key to a kingdom built on sand.
“We got it,” I breathed.
Before Tessa could answer, the sharp beam of a heavy halogen spotlight cut violently through the library’s blown-out windows, flooding the room in blinding white light.
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Heavy footsteps echoed from the grand foyer, accompanied by the cold, metallic click of a tactical shotgun being chambered.
“Federal property! Drop whatever you’re holding and step away from the hearth with your hands where we can see them!”
