Chapter 8 - The Serpent's Counterstrike
The rain was pounding relentlessly against the windshield of my black armored SUV as we tore up the FDR Drive toward the Whitmore family estate in Westchester.
Beside me in the passenger seat, Emily was clutching her bandaged wrists, staring out at the blurred neon lights of the awakening city.
My phone was ringing continuously, displaying alternating calls from the New York Stock Exchange liaison, corporate public relations, and Detective Hayes.
I tapped the dashboard screen to accept Hayes's incoming call.
"Daniel, we have a catastrophic problem," Hayes's voice boomed through the car speakers over the sound of the windshield wipers.
"What happened, Detective? Did they grant bail?"
"Worse. Judge Sterling didn't wait for the eight AM hearing," Hayes snarled, the rage practically vibrating through the phone.
"He signed an emergency writ of habeas corpus at four-thirty AM citing procedural violations during the arrest!"
"Vanessa walked out of Central Booking twenty minutes ago through a private subterranean exit!"
I slammed my palm against the steering wheel, the horn wailing through the rainy morning air.
"How is that legally possible?! We gave you Emily's sworn affidavit!"
"Sterling suppressed the affidavit, claiming the witness was an hourly employee coerced by the Whitmore family under duress!" Hayes shouted in disgust.
"Arthur Vance presented a signed medical document from a private psychiatrist claiming Eleanor has been suffering from vascular dementia since last November!"
"They are painting you and Emily as conspirators who attacked Vanessa on that terrace!"
"Where is Vanessa heading now?" I demanded, pressing the accelerator deeper into the floorboard.
"Our surveillance team lost her black Mercedes fifteen minutes ago near the Triborough Bridge," Hayes reported grimly.
"Daniel, she's heading north. She's heading toward the Westchester estate!"
My blood turned to pure liquid fire.
She knew about the library safe.
Vanessa had lived in that house for seven years; she knew Eleanor kept contingency files locked away in the private study.
"Hayes, get State Police units to the estate right now!" I yelled into the microphone.
"I'm ten minutes away!"
"Units are rolling, but the morning storm has backed up traffic on the Saw Mill Parkway! Get there first, Daniel, and do not confront her alone!"
The call cut off.
I shifted gears, the SUV’s twin-turbo engine roaring as we blew past a line of early morning commuter traffic.
"Mr. Whitmore," Emily said, her voice trembling slightly but laced with resolve.
"What will she do if she gets the drive first?"
"If she destroys that thumb drive, Marcus Vance takes legal control of the company at nine o'clock," I answered through gritted teeth.
"And once they control Whitmore Global, they have the resources to buy every judge, suppress every piece of evidence, and ensure my mother and I end up dead or in prison."
Eight minutes later, the massive wrought-iron gates of the Whitmore estate appeared through the driving rain.
The heavy security gates were standing wide open, their electronic control boxes ripped apart, wires sparking in the wet dawn air.
Fresh tire tracks tore through the manicured gravel driveway leading up to the grand stone mansion.
A sleek black Mercedes-Maybach was parked crookedly at the front entrance, its driver-side door left ajar in the rain.
"She's already inside," I said, putting the SUV into park and cutting the engine.
"Stay in the car, Emily. Lock the doors."
"No," Emily said firmly, reaching over with her bandaged hand to unbuckle her seatbelt.
"Your mother told me to stay with you. I'm not waiting out here while that psycho tries to finish what she started."
I looked at the young woman, amazed once again by the unyielding iron inside her slender frame.
"Stay behind me at all times," I instructed, reaching under the driver's seat to retrieve a heavy steel emergency flashlight.
We sprinted through the cold rain up the grand marble steps of the mansion.
The heavy mahogany front doors had been kicked inward, the deadbolt shattered against the frame.
Inside, the grand foyer was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic dripping of water from the chandelier above onto the checkered marble floor.
Paintings had been ripped off the walls of the central gallery.
Antique display cases were smashed open, porcelain figurines shattered across the floorboards.
Vanessa had torn through the house like a hurricane of destructive panic.
"Upstairs! The private library!" I whispered, gripping the flashlight tightly.
We moved swiftly up the sweeping grand staircase, our shoes making no sound against the thick Persian runners.
As we approached the heavy oak double doors of my mother's private library, the sound of tearing wood and frantic cursing leaked into the hallway.
"Where is it?! Where did that old witch put it?!"
Vanessa's voice was shrill, cracked with manic adrenaline.
I stepped into the doorway, flicking the high-powered beam of the flashlight directly into the room.
The massive oil portrait of my grandfather had been slashed to ribbons and thrown to the floor.
The steel door of the concealed wall safe had been pried open with an industrial crowbar.
Vanessa stood in the center of the room, her designer clothes soaked in rain, her hair plastered to her skull, clutching a thick stack of bearer bonds and property deeds.
In her right hand, she held a hollowed-out leather-bound bible.
And in her left hand, gleaming beneath the flashlight beam, was a small, brushed-aluminum thumb drive.
She whipped around, blinded by the glare, shielding her eyes with a snarl.
"Daniel!" she hissed, recognizing my silhouette.
"Put the drive on the desk, Vanessa," I said, stepping into the room, my body blocking the only exit.
"It's over."
Vanessa lowered her hand, and a horrifying, manic laugh bubbled up from her throat.
She pulled a small, silver-plated .22 caliber derringer pistol from her coat pocket and leveled it straight at my heart.
"You really are pathetic, Daniel," she sneered, clicking the safety off with her thumb.
"You think this ends with a courtroom trial?"
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"In forty minutes, the board votes Marcus in as CEO."
"And the police are going to find you and your little charity waitress dead in this library, victims of a tragic murder-suicide fueled by your guilt over Eleanor's death."
