Chapter 8 - Returning to the Lion’s Den
It was 2:15 AM when I pulled my truck back into the driveway of my family home.
The house was dark, save for a single amber porch light casting long, distorted shadows across the freshly fallen snow. The red roses I had dropped earlier that evening had already been partially covered by a fresh layer of frost.
I killed the engine, stepped out into the freezing night, and walked up the front steps with quiet, deliberate precision.
I didn't knock. I pulled out a small, specialized metal tension tool I carried from my tactical gear and went to work on the heavy brass front door lock. It took less than fifteen seconds for the internal mechanism to click.
I slipped inside, closing the door soundlessly behind me.
The house smelled of expensive wine, old polish, and cold deceit. Moving like a ghost in the dark, I navigated the familiar hallways until I reached my late father’s study.
The grandfather clock stood in the corner, ticking with a slow, heavy pendulum swing.
I stepped up to the massive timepiece, gripped the heavy wooden casing, and carefully slid it to the left along the polished floorboards. Sure enough, the concealed steel door of the wall safe was exposed, its digital keypad glowing with a faint blue light.
I punched in my father’s birth year followed by my deployment squad number.
BEEP.
May you like
The heavy steel door popped open with a satisfying hiss of air pressure.
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