Chapter 69 - Siege at Blackwood Ridge
The blizzard turned the winding mountain roads of northern Westchester into sheets of black ice.
Arthur Pendelton slammed his foot against the accelerator of his armored Suburban, tires fishtailing as he cleared the gates of Blackwood Ridge—Charles Sterling’s forgotten private estate perched high on a rocky promontory overlooking the Hudson River.
This was the sanctuary. The final redoubt.
Built during the height of the Cold War by Charles Sterling, the mansion at Blackwood Ridge was a fortified bunker disguised as a Tudor-style manor. Its foundations were bored fifty feet into solid granite, equipped with independent satellite communications, subterranean vaults, and a private helipad sheltered beneath a retractable blast-roof.
Pendelton burst through the heavy oak doors of the main hall, his charcoal coat covered in snow, his breathing ragged.
"Activate the perimeter defenses!" Pendelton screamed to the four private security operators guarding the entrance hall. "Seal the outer gates! Power up the private satellite link to Zurich! I need the sovereign transfer authorized before the federal warrants hit the European desk!"
"Mr. Pendelton," one of the operators said nervously, pointing toward the sweeping marble staircase. "The system is already online. Someone is already inside the master terminal."
Pendelton froze, ice running through his veins. "What do you mean, someone is inside? Who authorized access?"
A slow, rhythmic clapping echoed from the shadowy landing at the top of the grand staircase.
A woman stepped into the light of the bronze chandelier.
She was dressed in a tailored crimson wool suit, her grey-streaked hair swept back into an immaculate chignon, a glass of 1961 Chateau Latour held delicately in her gloved right hand. Her makeup was flawless; her amethyst eyes sparkled with serpentine malice.
Victoria Sterling.
Pendelton stumbled back, his eyes widening in pure disbelief. "Victoria?! How... how are you here?! You were in federal custody at 26 Federal Plaza!"
"You always did underestimate the power of my private retainers, Arthur," Victoria said smoothly, taking a slow sip of the deep red wine. "Did you really think the United States Marshals Service doesn't have a price? A ten-million-dollar wire from an offshore account in the Cayman Islands can make an entire transport van take a very long, very convenient detour."
Pendelton reached for the sidearm beneath his coat, but before his fingers could touch the holster, the red laser dots of two sniper rifles snapped onto his chest, projected from the shadowed balconies above.
The four private operators in the hall immediately aimed their weapons straight at Pendelton’s head.
"They work for me, Arthur," Victoria whispered, descending the marble stairs with regal grace, her heels clicking like the hammer of a revolver. "They always worked for me. You thought you could use my son to bait me, use my bomb to blind the feds, and then steal my late husband's sovereign trust?"
Victoria reached the bottom of the stairs, stopping three feet from Pendelton. Her smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, murderous contempt.
"You were a clerk, Arthur. A glorified accountant who carried Charles’s briefcase and wiped his shoes. And you dared to think you could sit on the throne I spent forty years bleeding for?"
"Victoria, listen to me!" Pendelton gasped, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill in the hall. "Ethan is alive! He breached the Vanderbilt Annex! He has Olivia! He’s coming here right now! If we don't transfer the Zurich assets together, Ethan will use the federal courts to strip both of us of every dollar!"
"Ethan is coming?" Victoria mused, tilting her glass. "Good. Let him come. Because when he arrives, he will find you dead, Arthur. He will find your confession, detailing how you orchestrated the entire kidnapping, the corporate fraud, and the attempt on his wife’s life."
"You... you’re going to frame me?" Pendelton stammered, backing toward the heavy front doors.
"Not frame, Arthur," Victoria purred, raising her hand. "Acknowledge. You served your purpose. Now, be a good clerk... and die."
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Before Victoria’s snipers could squeeze their triggers, the massive oak front doors of Blackwood Ridge were blown completely off their hinges by an armor-piercing kinetic ram.
***
