Chapter 7 - Blood on the Marble
Z
The gravel on the driveway of Oakridge Manor sprayed beneath the tires of my Subaru as I tore past the wrought-iron gates. The sky above Loudoun County was dark, heavy with the threat of an impending thunderstorm.
Two black commercial vans were parked haphazardly in front of the grand entrance. The front doors of the mansion hung wide open, swaying violently in the rising wind.
I drew my service sidearm—a Sig Sauer P320 I was authorized to carry as an active-duty military officer under secondary security detail—and stepped out of the vehicle. Rain began to fall in heavy, icy drops, stinging my face as I walked up the marble steps.
Inside, the grand hall was a scene of utter destruction.
Oil portraits of my ancestors had been ripped from the walls, their canvas slashed. Antique glass cabinets were shattered, their contents scattered across the hardwood floor. Papers, old journals, and broken furniture littered the sweeping staircase.
"Julian!" I called out, keeping my weapon raised in a low-ready position as I moved deliberately through the entrance.
A low groan echoed from the dining room to my right.
I moved swiftly, turning the corner while maintaining target acquisition. Lying on the floor near the long mahogany table was Julian. His face was bruised, blood trickling from a cut above his left eye, his designer suit torn at the shoulder.
I knelt beside him instantly, my medical training taking over. I checked his airway, felt his neck for carotid pulse, and assessed his pupil dilation.
"Evelyn..." Julian coughed, wincing in pain as he looked up at me through swollen eyes. "You... you were right. He's insane. He’s completely out of his mind."
"Hold still," I commanded softly, using a clean handkerchief from my pocket to apply pressure to his forehead. "Where is he? Where's Mother?"
"Mother ran to the caretaker's cottage to call the police," Julian rasped, gripping my sleeve with shaking fingers. "Richard... he brought his private contractors. They’re downstairs in the vault. He’s setting thermite charges, Evelyn! He’s going to burn the entire basement to destroy the physical drives!"
Thermite. It burned at over four thousand degrees Fahrenheit—hot enough to melt solid steel, cut through vault doors, and incinerate concrete structures within minutes. If he ignited thermite in the basement beneath a wooden frame house built in 1922, the entire structure would become an inferno before emergency services could even turn off the highway.
"Stay here, Julian. Keep pressure on that cut," I said, standing up.
"Evelyn, no!" Julian reached for my leg, horror in his voice. "He has armed men down there! They don't care about the law anymore! He told them you were a threat to national security—he gave them orders to shoot anyone who steps into that basement!"
"Then they'd better not miss," I said flatly.
May you like
I moved toward the back service staircase, the sound of my heartbeat echoing in my ears like a war drum.
As I reached the basement door, the distinct, sulfurous smell of chemical accelerants drifted up through the stairwell. I squeezed the grip of my Sig Sauer, checked the chamber, and slid silently into the darkness below.
