Chapter 2 - The Midnight Breach
The rain continued to hammer against the skylights of the Portland mansion, masking the low, rhythmic thrum of approaching tactical engines.
I dragged my upper body out of the pantry, using my elbows to pull my dead weight toward the heavy timber front doors.
Every inch of movement sent blinding flares of fire through my shattered shinbone, threatening to pull me into unconsciousness.
I refused to pass out.
I refused to let them find me shivering in the dark like a beaten dog.
Through the frosted glass sidelights of the grand entryway, the dark driveway suddenly exploded in blinding white LED high-beams.
Four armored tactical BearCat vehicles jumped the stone perimeter curb, smashing through the wrought-iron security gates with a thunderous metallic roar.
Sirens began to wail across the gated community, echoing off the surrounding fir trees.
Upstairs, a door slammed open, followed by the frantic thud of Preston’s bare feet racing down the hardwood hallway.
“What the hell is happening?” Preston shouted, tightening his silk robe around his waist as he bounded down the grand staircase.
Behind him, Evelyn scurried onto the mezzanine landing, clutching her plum cardigan, her face pale with terror.
“Preston! There are armed men in the courtyard!” she shrieked.
Before Preston could reach the central alarm console, the heavy double mahogany front doors were obliterated by a hydraulic breaching ram.
Splintered timber and shattered brass hardware rained across the marble foyer as twelve tactical officers in full body armor swarmed the hall with raised assault weapons.
“Police! Federal warrant! Get on the ground right now!” the lead breacher roared, his tactical flashlight pinning Preston against the banister.
Preston threw his hands into the air, stumbling backward onto the bottom step, trembling violently.
“Are you out of your minds? I am Preston Vance, Managing Director of Vance Logistics! This is private property!”
Detective Marcus Vance stepped through the pulverized entryway, wearing a heavy Kevlar vest and carrying an unsealed emergency protection decree.
He didn't look at Preston.
He looked down at the floor near the pantry archway where I lay propped against the baseboard, my fractured leg exposed and bent at a horrifying forty-five-degree angle.
Two tactical paramedics rushed past the officers, dropping their trauma bags beside me and immediately stabilizing my cervical spine.
“Compound comminuted fracture of the right tibia and fibula,” the lead paramedic announced into his radio with urgent gravity.
“Severe localized hematoma and impending vascular compromise; prepare the trauma bay at Oregon Health & Science University immediately.”
Marcus turned his piercing grey eyes toward Preston, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm.
“Preston Vance, you are under arrest for first-degree felony assault, domestic torture, and unlawful imprisonment.”
Evelyn screamed from the stairs, pointing a manicured finger at my stretcher as the paramedics lifted me with gentle, practiced care.
“She fell down the stairs! She is a hysterical, clumsy liar who tripped over her own slippers!”
Marcus pulled the heavy marble rolling pin from the kitchen island with a gloved hand, holding the blood-stained stone up to the tactical light.
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“Save your pathetic lies for the grand jury, Evelyn,” Marcus growled.
“Because your fingerprints are stamped in blood all over this murder weapon.”
