Chapter 9 - Night at Lake Norman
The Prescott estate at Lake Norman was an eight-acre fortress of manicured lawns, towering pines, and private water frontage. A massive stone mansion sat perched on a bluff overlooking the dark, choppy waters of the lake, while a two-story cedar-and-stone boathouse extended out over the water below.
By the time Victoria’s black Suburban rolled through the rear utility access road, black smoke was already billowing from a brick chimney on the side of the boathouse.
"They’ve started the burn," Ruiz said, killing the vehicle's headlights fifty yards from the perimeter hedge.
Victoria stepped out into the damp chill of the evening. Behind her, three heavily built men in dark civilian tactical gear stepped out of a second vehicle, their movements fluid, silent, and lethal.
"Ruiz, take two men and secure the main house," Victoria whispered, pulling her sidearm and checking the night-sights. "Make sure Margaret Prescott doesn't leave the property. I'm going into the boathouse."
"Colonel, they’ll have armed guards on that dock," Ruiz cautioned.
"I'm counting on it," Victoria replied.
She slipped through the pine trees with the ghost-like silence that had kept her alive in three combat zones. The smell of burning paper and chemical accelerant grew stronger with every step.
Below the bluff, the boathouse lights were blazing. Through the large glass windows, Victoria could see two men in black tactical jumpsuits tossing thick manila folders and magnetic tape reels into an open iron incinerator door.
A third guard stood on the wooden deck outside, holding a semi-automatic shotgun, sweeping his gaze across the water.
Victoria didn't hesitate.
She closed the distance behind the exterior guard in five silent strides. Before the man could register the crunch of pine needles, Victoria struck him behind the ear with the weighted butt of her Beretta. He dropped to the wooden planks without a sound.
Victoria caught the shotgun before it hit the wood, setting it down gently.
She kicked the boathouse door open with a thunderous crash.
The two men inside spun around, reaching for their holsters, but Victoria was already through the threshold. She drove her shoulder into the first man’s chest, slamming him against the brick chimney, his breath escaping in a violent wheeze as his pistol skattered across the concrete floor.
The second man drew his weapon, but Victoria grabbed his wrist, twisting it violently inward until the bone snapped with a sickening *crack*. He screamed, dropping to his knees as Victoria swept his legs out from under him, pinning him to the floor with her boot across his collarbone.
She reached over with her free hand, grabbed an industrial fire extinguisher from the wall, and blasted the open incinerator door with a thick cloud of white chemical foam, smothering the flames instantly.
Inside the half-burned firebox lay a scorched, heavy steel ledger box, its combination lock half-melted but intact.
Victoria pulled the box from the ashes with her gloved hands, setting it on the workbench.
Behind her, the door opened.
Margaret Prescott stood in the doorway.
She was alone. Her hair was windswept, her silk trench coat splattered with mud, her face pale and gaunt beneath the harsh boathouse fluorescent lights. In her right hand, she held a small, silver-plated .22 caliber revolver.
"Step away from that box, Colonel," Margaret hissed, her voice trembling with manic desperation. "Step away from it, or I swear to God I'll kill you right here."
Victoria looked at the tiny gun in Margaret’s shaking hand. Then she slowly turned around, facing the matriarch.
"You're not going to shoot me, Margaret," Victoria said, her voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register.
"You think I won't?" Margaret cried, tears of pure, venomous rage spilling over her cheeks. "You've ruined us! You’ve destroyed seventy years of work! Ethan is a coward, Brandon is in chains, and my family name is being dragged through the gutter by a twenty-four-year-old whore and her soldier mother!"
"Your family destroyed itself," Victoria said, taking a slow step toward her. "You beat a child because you were terrified she saw who you really were. You aren't a dynasty, Margaret. You’re a pack of thieves with good manners and expensive lawyers."
"Stay back!" Margaret shrieked, raising the gun with both hands, her finger tightening on the trigger.
Victoria closed the distance in a single, explosive burst.
Her left hand clamped down over the cylinder of the revolver, preventing the hammer from cycling, while her right palm struck Margaret’s chin in a sharp, open-handed palm strike.
The gun dropped into Victoria’s hand. Margaret stumbled backward against the wooden railing of the dock, gasping for breath, clutching her throat.
Victoria unloaded the cylinder with a flick of her wrist, letting the tiny brass bullets scatter across the wooden planks like hail.
She dropped the empty weapon onto the floor.
"It’s over, Margaret," Victoria said.
May you like
Outside, the sirens arrived in force. Blue and red flashing lights washed over the lake water, reflecting against the glass of the boathouse as twenty federal vehicles swarmed the Prescott estate.
***
