Chapter 7 - The Boathouse on the Lake
At 8:58 PM, the Bedford estate was bathed in a cold, moonlit gloom.
My motorized wheelchair moved silently along the narrow, paved garden paths, hiding in the deep shadows cast by the massive oak trees and manicured hedges. Lily sat in my lap, her face buried against my chest, obeying my command to stay as still as a stone.
Thanks to the looped camera feed, none of the perimeter guards had noticed our escape from the main house.
At 9:00 PM precisely, the world went black.
A sudden, total blackout struck the entire county as Dominic’s team executed the power grid sabotage.
The bright floodlights surrounding the estate instantly extinguished. The automated security gates froze in place. The high-pitched hum of the electric fences died away into absolute silence.
Shouts of confusion erupted from the main house as guards scrambled to find flashlights and activate the backup generators.
“Now,” I muttered.
I accelerated my wheelchair down the sloping gravel trail leading toward the northern lake, moving fast through the pitch-black woods.
Five minutes later, the silhouette of the white wooden boathouse appeared through the trees, sitting on stilts over the dark, stagnant water of the lake. A single window on the upper floor was lit by the dim, flickering orange glow of an oil lamp.
Two armed guards stood on the narrow wooden porch outside the boathouse, holding tactical flashlights and assault rifles, looking around in confusion at the sudden blackout.
I pulled my wheelchair behind a thick pine tree thirty feet away.
I reached down, drawing the SIG Sauer from my waistband. I attached a heavy steel suppressor to the barrel with smooth, practiced motions.
My legs were useless, but my arms, my eyes, and my lethal marksmanship were as precise as the day I was born.
I leaned my elbows against the armrests of my wheelchair, stabilizing my sightline through the gloom.
Pfft. Pfft.
Two quiet, muffled pops echoed through the dark woods.
The first guard collapsed instantly, a bullet striking him directly between the eyes. The second guard dropped half a second later, taking a round through his throat before he could raise his rifle or shout an alarm.
Both bodies hit the wooden deck with dull thuds.
“Stay here behind this tree, Lily,” I ordered softly, setting my daughter down on the dry pine needles beneath the tree. “Do not move until I call you. Understand?”
Lily nodded bravely, clutching her picture book against her chest. “Be careful, Daddy.”
I wheeled my chair out of the shadows, rolling up the wooden ramp onto the boathouse porch. I pushed past the two dead guards, reaching the heavy oak front door.
I turned the handle. It was unlocked.
I pushed the door open, rolling into the dim, lamplit interior.
The downstairs area was filled with old boat engines, fishing nets, and dusty crates. A narrow wooden staircase led up to the second-floor living quarters.
“Claire!” I called out, my voice raspy but echoing clearly through the small building.
A sharp gasp came from the upper floor, followed by the frantic sound of a chair scraping against floorboards and the rustle of heavy chains.
“Adrian?!” a woman’s voice screamed—a voice that instantly brought tears to my eyes, a voice I had dreamed of every single night for three agonizing years. “Adrian! Oh my God! Is that you?!”
I wheeled my chair over to the base of the stairs. I looked up at the wooden steps.
Twelve steps.
Twelve steps stood between me and the woman I loved.
My useless legs hung lifelessly against the footrests of my wheelchair. I couldn't walk up those stairs. I couldn't stand.
I looked at the steps, my jaw clenching with a fury that burned away every trace of physical weakness.
I threw my body out of the wheelchair.
I crashed hard onto the cold, damp wooden floor at the base of the stairs. The pain tore through my damaged spine and internal organs like liquid fire, making me gasp for breath, but I ignored it completely.
I grabbed the first wooden step with my bare hands.
Using the raw, terrifying strength of my upper body, I began dragging myself up the stairs, step by step, pulling my dead lower half behind me like a broken chain.
One step.
Two steps.
“Adrian!” Claire’s hysterical weeping echoed from above. “Adrian, he told me you were dead! He told me you died in the hospital!”
Three steps.
Four steps.
Blood began to seep through my sweater as my surgical scars tore under the immense physical strain, but I felt no pain. I felt only an unyielding, unstoppable fire.
Ten steps.
Eleven steps.
I dragged my body over the top step, hauling myself into the small, lit bedroom.
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Claire was tied to a wooden chair near the window, wrapped in a faded blanket, her hair long and messy, her face thin and pale, but her dark brown eyes were blazing with pure, unadulterated shock and tears.
Beside her, standing in the shadows with a silver revolver pressed against her temple, was Marcus Vale.
