Chapter 15 - The Mountain Fortress
The sleet turned to heavy, driving snow as our convoy of three heavy-duty four-wheel-drive trucks climbed the winding logging roads of the Alleghenies.
The trees leaned over the gravel path like skeletal sentinels, weighed down by thick coats of ice.
Inside the cab, the hum of the engine and the crackle of the encrypted radio were the only sounds piercing the tension.
"He thinks he's untouchable up here," I said, watching the headlights carve a path through the blinding white squall.
"Richard grew up believing that money creates a separate reality where rules don't apply," Daniel replied, his hands resting easily on the steering wheel, completely unbothered by the treacherous terrain.
"He doesn't understand that when the power grid goes down and the ice freezes the roads, a portfolio doesn't keep you warm, and a trust fund won't pull a two-ton luxury SUV out of a ditch."
Ten minutes later, the amber glow of exterior floodlights appeared through the dense timber.
The Sterling family cabin was less of a hunting shack and more of a multi-million-dollar cedar-and-stone fortress perched on the edge of a steep ravine.
Parked beneath the cedar porte-cochère was Richard’s black Range Rover, its engine ticking faintly in the freezing air, luggage already strapped onto the roof rack.
Daniel signaled over the radio, and our three trucks kill their high beams, rolling silently into position to block the narrow driveway completely.
We stepped out into the freezing night, the snow crunching loudly beneath our thick soles.
Marcus and two security men moved along the perimeter, cutting the auxiliary generator lines to plunge the property into sudden, stark darkness.
A shout echoed from inside the cabin, followed by the clatter of dropped glass and the beam of a high-powered flashlight sweeping across the front windows.
The heavy timber door flew open, and Richard Vance stepped out onto the wide porch, wrapped in a designer shearling coat, gripping a flashlight in one hand and a high-end hunting rifle in the other.
Behind him, Victoria Sterling hovered in the entryway, clutching a designer duffle bag, her eyes wild with panic.
"Who is out there?" Richard screamed into the storm, raising the rifle toward the shadows. "This is private property! I am armed!"
Daniel stepped out from behind the lead truck, walking slowly into the beam of Richard’s flashlight, entirely unbothered by the weapon pointed at his chest.
The light hit Daniel’s face, catching the calm, cold certainty in his eyes.
May you like
Richard lowered the rifle by an inch, his jaw dropping in utter disbelief.
"Coleman?" Richard sputtered, his voice cracking with hysterical laughter. "Daniel Coleman? What the hell is this? Did Arthur send his grease monkey up here to beg for an allowance?"
