Chapter 4 - The Gates of Lake Forest
The drive from Milwaukee down to Lake Forest took forty-five minutes in my dark grey Industrial-edition Range Rover.
The autumn rain was just beginning to fall, a cold, miserable drizzle that slicked the asphalt and made the fallen oak leaves stick to the windshield like wet rust.
I didn't hurry. I didn't break the speed limit. The manic, explosive anger that had consumed me three years ago had long since burned out, leaving behind a cold, crystalline machine that operated with absolute precision.
I turned off the main highway onto a quiet, winding road lined with stone walls, iron gates, and multi-million-dollar estates hidden behind golden maple trees.
I pulled up to the iron security gate of 114 Whispering Pines Way.
A brass plaque beside the call box read: THE VANCE ESTATE.
I didn't use the intercom. I pulled out my phone, typed a four-digit security override code provided by Marcus’s legal team—the code granted to the new legal property owner—and pressed enter.
The heavy iron gates hummed to life, swinging slowly inward.
I drove up the long, brick-paved driveway. At the top of the rise stood a massive, French-country style mansion constructed of pale limestone and slate. Parked in the circular driveway were two cars: a sleek white Porsche Cayenne and a dark blue Mercedes S-Class.
I parked my Range Rover directly behind the Porsche, blocking it in.
I turned off the engine. The cabin of the SUV went quiet, save for the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine and the soft patter of rain against the panoramic sunroof.
I reached up to the visor mirror and looked at myself.
The thirty-two-year-old wounded soldier with hollow eyes and a limp was gone. In his place sat a thirty-five-year-old man with broad shoulders, sharp, cold gray eyes, a clean-cut jawline, and a presence that commanded every room he walked into.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, reached into my coat pocket, and made sure the folded foreclosure document and Brenda’s old note were right where they belonged.
I stepped out of the vehicle.
My carbon-fiber prosthetic clicked softly against the wet brick pavement—a firm, perfectly balanced stride that carried no hesitation, no stumble, and no weakness.
I walked up the wide stone steps to the massive, arched mahogany front door.
Above the brass knocker hung a decorative autumn wreath woven with dried flowers and ribbon. Inside, I could faintly hear the sound of a jazz piano playing from an integrated house speaker system, accompanied by the gentle clink of glassware.
They were celebrating something. A quiet, cozy rainy afternoon in their six-million-dollar paradise.
I didn't ring the doorbell.
May you like
I lifted my hand, formed a heavy fist, and struck the solid mahogany door three times—a loud, booming strike that echoed off the stone entryway like a cannon shot.
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