Chapter 9 - The Sterling Estate
The wrought-iron gates of Arthur Sterling’s sprawling waterfront estate in the historic district of Charleston stood open, guarded only by a pair of private security guards nodding off inside a heated SUV. It was 3:15 AM. The city was fast asleep, unaware that a storm far deadlier than any hurricane was about to make landfall on its most affluent shoreline.
A quarter-mile away, hidden beneath the canopy of ancient live oaks draped in Spanish moss, Jake and Mac crouched beside the tree line. Mac adjusted his night-vision monocular, studying the perimeter cameras and motion sensors ringing the sprawling plantation-style mansion.
“Feed is looped,” Mac whispered into the comm-link. “We’ve got a four-man patrol on the east lawn, two stationary guards by the rear veranda, and Sterling himself is holed up in his second-floor study. According to our digital intercept, he’s packing his hard drives and preparing to catch a private charter flight out of Charleston Executive Airport by dawn.”
“He’s running,” Jake said, checking the bolt of his rifle with a soft, metallic click. “He realizes the federal indictment on Vance and Diane is going to trace straight back to his shell companies by morning.”
“What’s the play, captain?” Mac asked, a grim smile touching his lips. “We take the house, or we intercept him on the tarmac?”
“We don't chase him,” Jake said coldly. “We corner him right where he thinks he’s untouchable.”
They moved across the manicured lawn with the silent, ghost-like grace of operators clearing a hostile compound in hostile territory. The guards didn't even hear the soft whish of the compressed-gas tranquilizer darts Mac deployed from the tree line. Both private contractors slumped forward against the hood of their SUV before they could touch their radios.
Jake vaulted the low brick wall of the rear veranda, sliding the glass patio door open with a single, practiced flick of a lock pick. Within seconds, he was inside the mansion, moving up the grand mahogany staircase with absolute, lethal purpose.
The second-floor hallway was dimly lit by antique sconces. At the far end, heavy double doors stood slightly ajar, casting a warm bar of golden light across the polished Persian rug. Inside, Arthur Sterling’s frantic voice could be heard barking orders into a secure satellite phone.
“...get the Cayman accounts scrubbed clean! I don't care about the local holdings, just purge the corporate ledger before the federal auditors pull the server mirrors!”
Jake didn't knock. He kicked the heavy mahogany doors wide open with a deafening crash that splintered the brass latch and slammed the panels against the interior walls.
Arthur Sterling spun around so fast he knocked his crystal whiskey glass off the mahogany desk, shattering it across the floor. The silver-haired, impeccably dressed attorney stared in utter, paralyzing shock at the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in his doorway—a man carrying a precision rifle, wearing combat gear, and radiating an aura of pure, unadulterated vengeance.
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“W-What is this?” Sterling stammered, his face turning the color of ash as he backed away against his overflowing bookshelves. “You can't—do you know who I am? I own half this county!”
“You owned half a house that didn't belong to you,” Jake said, stepping into the study and closing the heavy doors behind him with a slow, deliberate click.
