Chapter 7 - The Burning Threshold
Detective Vance didn't wait for gate codes or pleasantries. She steered the heavy cruiser directly onto the curb, clipping the front quarter panel of the lead private security SUV with a sickening crunch of tearing metal, and brought the cruiser to a halt directly against the iron pedestrian gate.
"Stay behind me!" she shouted, drawing her service weapon as she kicked the driver's side door open.
"Federal law and exigent circumstances, clear the path!" Vance yelled at the private security guards, who instantly recoiled, their hands rising cautiously away from their belts at the sight of her drawn weapon. "Police! Stand down or you will be charged as accessories to attempted murder!"
The guard nearest the gatehouse scrambled to hit the override switch. The iron gates groaned open.
I didn't wait for Vance's permission. I sprinted through the gap, my boots kicking up wet gravel as I bolted up the driveway toward the three-story stone manor. The smoke was coming from the west wing—the exact location of Marcus’s library and the formal dining room.
The front double doors were unlocked. As I burst into the towering marble foyer, the smell of burning paper, ozone, and chemical fire retardant hit the back of my throat, triggering a violent cough.
"Elisa!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the high-domed ceiling. "Elisa!"
No answer. The house was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic, low-frequency wail of an internal fire alarm that Marcus had evidently silenced on the municipal reporting lines.
I tore through the grand hallway toward the dining room.
The double mahogany doors were wide open. The room was a disaster. The massive dining table had been shoved aside, gouging deep trenches into the antique hardwood floor.
Table Twelve—the heavy, high-backed chair where Sophia sat—was overturned. The underside was torn open, the black cloth ripped away to reveal a mass of severed copper wires, a melted plastic housing, and the scorched outline of what had once been a sophisticated electronics module.
A heavy industrial blowtorch sat on the floor, its nozzle still glowing a dull cherry red. Marcus had systematically melted the components to slag.
"Looking for this, Michael?"
The voice came from the darkened doorway leading to the library.
May you like
Marcus stepped out. His suit jacket was gone, his shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms, his hands blackened with soot. In his right hand, he held a heavy brass fire iron. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and completely devoid of human restraint.
Behind him, through the library door, I saw Elisa slumped against the mahogany desk, her hands bound behind her with heavy zip-ties, her forehead bleeding onto the Persian carpet.
