Chapter 6 - The Poisoned Will
By 2:00 AM, the massive mansion was locked in an eerie, suffocating quiet. Outside, a torrential rainstorm had rolled in over the lake, driving sheets of freezing rain against the heavy leaded-glass windows. Lightning flashed across the sky, momentarily illuminating the vast grounds where Hendricks’s security guards patrolled the perimeter with guard dogs.
Arthur had returned to his private master bedroom suite, connected to the study by an armored interior door. According to Dr. Vance’s explicit medical orders, Arthur was hooked up to an intravenous saline drip to help clear the fluid from his lungs, along with an automated vital-signs monitor that beeped with rhythmic, soothing consistency.
Clara sat in the adjacent sitting room, her laptop open, working directly with the head of the security monitoring center to track every internal motion sensor in the house.
Suddenly, her screen flickered.
A red warning box flashed across the estate's central management terminal: *CAMERA CORRIDOR 4B - SIGNAL LOSS.*
Clara sat bolt upright. Corridor 4B was the private hallway leading directly to Arthur’s bedroom suite.
"Hendricks," Clara whispered into her encrypted radio headset. "Did you take camera 4B offline?"
Static hissed in her ear. Then, nothing.
The radio channel was dead. A localized signal jammer had just been activated within the wing.
Clara stood up immediately, her heart thumping against her ribs. She slipped her hand into the drawer of the mahogany side table and pulled out the small .38 caliber revolver Arthur kept stashed for personal protection. Her palms were slick with sweat, but her grip was steady.
She moved silently to the heavy wooden door separating the sitting room from the hallway and peeked through the antique viewing aperture.
The hallway was pitch-black. The emergency floor-strip lights had been cut.
A tall, broad figure moved through the darkness with stealthy, practiced efficiency. He wore black tactical gloves and a dark overcoat. In his hand, glinting beneath the intermittent flashes of lightning from the hallway windows, was a pre-loaded hypodermic syringe.
It wasn't Julian. Julian was too cowardly for direct violence.
It was Carter Cross.
Carter had spent four years in naval intelligence before entering the private equity world. He knew how to move silently. He knew human anatomy. And he knew that an injection of potassium chloride into an existing intravenous line would mimic an acute, fatal cardiac arrest—an entirely believable outcome for a sixty-eight-year-old man who had nearly drowned just hours earlier. The autopsy would find only heart failure. The unsigned will would die with Arthur.
Carter reached the door to Arthur’s bedroom suite. He slipped a magnetic bypass card into the lock. The indicator light flashed green with a soft, muted chime.
The door swung inward.
Carter stepped into the dark bedroom. The only sound was the steady, rhythmic *beep... beep... beep...* of the heart monitor by the bed.
Carter approached the bed, raising the syringe. The silhouette of a man lay beneath the heavy down comforter, the IV line snaking from a metal stand into the blankets.
"Nothing personal, Arthur," Carter murmured in the dark, his voice a cold whisper of sociopathic detachment. "You lived twenty years past your usefulness."
Carter reached down to grab the IV port.
Suddenly, the lights flooded the room with blinding, blinding brilliance.
Carter recoiled, shielding his eyes with his forearm.
The bed was empty. In place of Arthur was a body pillow arranged under the blankets, hooked to a portable training mannequin monitor.
"Drop the syringe, Carter."
Carter spun around, his jaw clenched, his eyes wide with shock.
Sitting in his wheelchair in the corner of the room, completely illuminated beneath the chandelier, was Arthur Blackwood. And standing directly beside him, holding the .38 revolver trained dead-center on Carter’s chest, was Clara Vance.
Behind them, the connecting door to the study swung open, and three heavily armed security officers, led by Chief Hendricks, flooded into the room, their assault rifles raised and laser sights painted across Carter’s torso.
Carter froze. The hypodermic needle remained poised in his gloved fingers, the clear liquid visible inside the barrel.
May you like
"You really are a predictable bastard, Carter," Arthur said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "You always were better at corporate sabotage than actual strategy."
***
