Chapter 7 - Breach at Beacon Hill
The iron gates of the Beacon Hill estate loomed like the portcullis of a medieval fortress against the predawn sky.
Callum’s town car smashed through them with a screech of tearing metal and shattered ironwork, the heavy vehicle sliding sideways across the frosted cobblestone courtyard before slamming to a halt against the base of the grand stone fountain.
Maeve’s head whipped against the passenger window, stars dancing across her vision, but she barely felt the impact. The adrenaline singing through her veins drowned out the pain.
Before the dust settled, Callum was out of the car. He wrenched the driver’s side door open, pulled a heavy tactical shotgun from the floorboards, and chambered a round with a sharp, metallic clack.
Mercer tumbled out of the cruiser behind them, his face pale, breathing hard. “Callum, the house is dark. If Declan’s expecting us—”
“He’s not expecting us to drive through his front gate,” Callum interrupted, sprinting toward the grand mahogany double doors of the mansion. He didn't bother knocking; he raised the heel of his boot and kicked the lock with a brutal, explosive impact.
The heavy wood splintered, and the doors blew wide open into the cavernous, darkened foyer.
Maeve stayed close to Mercer as they crossed the threshold, stepping into a world of polished marble, ancestral oil portraits, and suffocating silence. The sprawling Beacon Hill manor usually hummed with the quiet efficiency of a dozen domestic servants, but tonight it felt like a tomb.
“Check the west wing,” Callum commanded Mercer, his shotgun raised, his eyes scanning the shadows of the grand staircase. “I’ll take the library and the master study.”
“Callum, wait—” Mercer started, but the shipping magnate was already moving, his boots clicking sharply against the marble floor before vanishing into the darkness.
Maeve stood frozen in the center of the foyer, her eyes drawn to a familiar bronze statue on the mahogany console table. A drop of dark, wet liquid had dripped onto its polished surface.
She looked up.
A smear of crimson stained the white wainscoting along the hallway leading toward the conservatory.
“Mr. Mercer,” Maeve whispered, her voice tight with sudden terror.
The young cop turned, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. He saw the blood trail instantly. He raised his Glock, stepping cautiously toward the hallway, gesturing for Maeve to stay back.
They followed the dark trail past the drawing room and the formal dining salon—the very room Maeve had polished silver for just twenty-four hours earlier—until they reached the heavy double doors of Declan’s private office.
The door was cracked open an inch.
From inside came the sound of a record player hissing softly, spinning a scratchy, forgotten jazz tune into the empty room.
Mercer pushed the door open with the barrel of his gun, stepping inside.
Maeve followed, her breath catching in her throat as the light from the hallway spilled across the floor.
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Declan Vale sat slumped backward in his high-backed leather desk chair, a glass of amber scotch resting precariously between his lifeless fingers. A neat, dark hole was punched through the center of his forehead, and the wall behind him was painted in a grim, violent mosaic.
He had been dead for hours.
