Chapter 8 - A Father’s Interrogation
At 6:30 PM, the storm reached its peak. Thunder rolled across the river valley, rattling the windows of the caterers' vans parked along the secondary service road.
I didn't breach the main gate. In military operations, you never strike where the enemy expects an intruder. You find the weakest link in their logistical chain.
The service gate on the north side was manned by a single private security guard sitting inside a heated aluminum guard shack, nursing a thermos of coffee and listening to the local sports broadcast. His name, embroidered on his black tactical vest, was Miller—an ex-Peoria deputy who had taken early retirement to collect twenty-five dollars an hour sitting in the dry warmth of Arthur Vance’s payroll.
I waited for the rumble of a heavy diesel linen delivery truck to mask my approach. As the truck cleared the turn, I stepped out from the tree line, moved through the sensor dead-zone behind the shack, and slipped through the unlocked sliding door.
Before Miller could turn his head, my left arm was locked around his throat in a sleeper hold, while my right hand clamped down over his mouth, pinning his head against the back of his chair.
"Don't reach for the belt," I whispered into his ear. My voice was calm, conversational, terrifyingly steady. "If your fingers touch that holster, your trachea collapses. Nod if you understand."
Miller’s eyes were white with terror. He nodded rapidly against my palm.
I eased the pressure on his throat by five percent, keeping his head completely immobilized.
"You know who I am, Miller?"
"N-no," he wheezed.
"Daniel Mercer. Lily Mercer’s father."
A tremor ran through his entire frame. The private security network had already been briefed. They knew what Julian had done. They knew why they had been told to look out for 'suspicious inquiries.'
"Mr. Mercer... Jesus Christ, man, I didn't have anything to do with that," Miller begged, his voice shaking. "I just work the perimeter! I swear to God!"
"Where is the master recording unit for the property's security feed?"
"In the basement of the main house. Room B-4. But you can't get in there, man. Arthur’s head of security, an ex-State Police captain named Gallagher, has the keycard on his neck. He never takes it off."
"And the pool house?" I asked, tightening my forearm just enough to remind him of his mortality. "How is it wired?"
"Independent keypad on the south glass door," Miller stammered, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold air blowing through the door. "Code is 0-4-1-2. But Julian’s in there right now with two guys from his fraternity. They’re doing blow and getting dressed for the speeches. They have a Glock 19 in the wet bar drawer."
"Who disabled the city camera behind the campus library last night, Miller?"
Miller swallowed hard. His breath hitched. "It wasn't campus cops. It was Arthur. Arthur called Chief Halloway directly at ten o'clock. Paid fifty grand into an offshore consulting account to kill the city feed for two hours. Arthur told him his kid was 'handling a personal dispute.' He didn't know Julian was going to take a bat to her face!"
"He knew Julian was violent," I said, my voice hardening like ice. "He just didn't care as long as it stayed quiet."
"Please, Mercer... I have two kids. Don't do this. If Arthur finds out I talked to you—"
"Arthur isn't going to have time to worry about you, Miller," I whispered.
I shifted my grip, applied targeted pressure to the carotid artery on the side of his neck, and held it for precisely six seconds. Miller’s eyes fluttered, his muscles went slack, and he slumped unconscious into my arms.
I laid him gently on the floor of the guard shack, secured his wrists and ankles with heavy-duty zip ties from his own duty belt, and taped his mouth with industrial electrical tape. I took his master key fob, his handheld radio, and his secondary key ring.
I stepped back out into the torrential rain.
Across the great lawn, the lights of the French chateau were ablaze. Limousines were pulling up to the grand portico, unloading judges in velvet-collared coats, corporate donors in silk ties, and politicians waving for private campaign photographers.
May you like
And fifty yards away, through the steam rising from the heated outdoor pool, the glass doors of the pool house glowed like a stage waiting for its final act.
I pulled my knife, secured Miller's radio to my chest, and stepped into the mist.
