Chapter 12 - The Breach in the Wet Grass
The rain had softened into a thick
suffocating mist that clung to the pine needles and obscured the security lights.
Through the thermal cameras
the two figures moved like predatory shadows.
They had bypassed the infrared tripwires with professional ease
evidence of Marcus’s detailed notes on our security infrastructure.
The taller man was Tyler Vance.
Even through the grainy black-and-white monitor
his jerky
erratic gait was unmistakable.
He wore a heavy leather jacket
combat boots
and carried a short crowbar tucked into his belt alongside an extended-magazine Glock.
The second man was shorter
broader
moving with the heavy
deliberate steps of a hired enforcer from the Southside docks.
They reached the brick patio outside my study.
The French doors stood unlocked
a faint golden light spilling from the interior desk lamp
illuminating the wet flagstones.
Inside the office
I sat alone.
The Sig Sauer remained resting across my thighs
partially covered by the hem of my cashmere blanket.
The room smelled of old paper
expensive tobacco
and damp earth.
The lock on the French door gave way with a sharp
metallic crunch as Tyler forced the crowbar into the seam.
The wood splintered.
The glass rattled in its lead frames.
Tyler stepped into the office
his boots leaving wet
muddy smears across the Persian rug.
Water dripped from his shaven head
his pale skin slick with rain and sweat.
His eyes darted across the bookshelves
the monitors
the antique globes
and finally locked onto me.
A broad
ugly grin stretched across his thin lips.
“Well
look at this,” Tyler purred
his voice rough and nasal
carrying the rank stench of cheap cigarettes and jailhouse coffee.
“The great Dominic Mason.
The king of Atlanta sitting in a fancy rolling cart
waiting for bedtime.”
The second man followed him inside
closing the fractured doors behind him
his hand resting on the heavy revolver holstered at his hip.
I did not move.
I did not reach for my weapon.
I simply watched him with the detached curiosity of an entomologist studying a beetle pinned to a board.
“You wiped your feet on a three-hundred-year-old rug
Mr. Vance,” I said quietly.
Tyler let out a barking laugh
tapping the crowbar against his thigh.
“I don’t give a damn about your rug
old man.
Raymond said you were soft.
He said twenty years in that chair turned your brain into porridge.”
He took two steps forward
stopping just six feet from my desk.
“Where is she?” Tyler demanded
his grin vanishing
replaced by a dark
murderous snarl.
“Where is Meggie and my kid?”
“The boy is not your child,” I answered
my tone conversational
unhurried.
“Noah carries Julian Mason’s blood.
You were merely a temporary inconvenience Megan tolerated to keep a roof over her head.”
Tyler’s jaw twitched violently.
A vein bulged along his temple.
“Julian is dead!
He burned up like a piece of trash twenty years ago!
Meggie belongs to me!
She’s my wife by common law
and that brat is my ticket to ten million dollars of Raymond’s inheritance trust!”
He drew the Glock from his waistband
pointing the barrel directly between my eyes.
“Tell me where they are
Dominic.
Or I put a hole through that fancy forehead of yours
burn this house to the ground
and find them myself.”
I leaned back slightly against the leather padding of my chair.
“You forgot one fundamental rule of contract work
Tyler.”
Tyler sneered
his finger tightening on the trigger.
“What rule is that
cripple?”
“Always verify the balance of your employer’s accounts before you pull the trigger,” I said.
Before Tyler could process the words
a soft
dry click sounded from the shadowed archway behind the bookshelf.
Megan Foster stepped out of the darkness.
In her hands
she held the twelve-gauge Remington shotgun.
The barrel was aimed squarely at the base of Tyler Vance’s skull.
Her eyes were cold
steady
and utterly devoid of pity.
“Put the gun down
Tyler,” Megan said
May you like
her voice barely above a whisper.
“Or I swear to God I’ll paint this entire office with what passes for your brains.”
