Chapter 8 - The Serpent’s Gate
The Sterling estate sat behind twelve-foot wrought-iron palisades wrapped in creeping ivy, isolated at the summit of Pine Ridge. The gravel crunched under my tires as I skidded to a halt in front of the massive stone pillars flanking the intercom.
I didn’t ring the buzzer. I leaned on the horn, three long, rhythmic blasts—the old signal for official police priority.
Within thirty seconds, a guard in a navy blazer with a tactical headset stepped out of the gatehouse, his hand hovering over an open holster. He recognized the SUV. He recognized my face.
“Mercer?” the guard shouted over the rumbling engine. “Mr. Sterling isn't receiving visitors. He’s unwell.”
“Open the damn gate, Miller!” I screamed, leaning out the window, showing the dried blood on my sleeves. “State police just secured the Blackwood site! Vance’s old files were retrieved from his safe this morning. Warrants are signed. They’re coming up the ridge right now to execute an asset freeze!”
The guard’s training dissolved into panic. He had worked private security long enough to know Sterling’s empire was built on rotting pilings. He sprinted back into the booth and hit the release. The heavy iron wings groaned open.
I punched the gas, spraying white gravel across the manicured lawn, roaring up the winding driveway toward the neo-classical mansion at the top of the hill.
I slammed the brakes in the circular courtyard, leaving black rubber on the flagstones. I left the engine running, leapt from the car, and took the marble steps three at a time. The double oak doors opened before I reached them.
Arthur Sterling stood in the foyer, leaning heavily on an ebony cane with a silver pheasant head. He was thin as parchment, his skin translucent, spotted with age, but his eyes were the same cold, predatory gray they had been fourteen years ago.
“What is the meaning of this racket, John?” the old man rasped, his voice whistling through brittle teeth. “My butler said you were shouting about warrants.”
“Blackwood,” I said, closing the distance between us until I could smell the peppermint and formaldehyde on his breath. “The construction crew found Clara Meyers’s remains two hours ago. Along with the metal lockbox she had in the floorboards.”
Sterling’s hand tightened on the cane until his knuckles turned blue. The color drained from his sunken cheeks. “That’s... that’s impossible. That trench was cleared.”
“You know what was down there,” I whispered, leaning in, grabbing his lapel with my left hand, the steel cuff rattling against his gold watch. “Vance is dead, Sterling. The paper trail ends with you. You have about five minutes before the tactical team rolls through that gate to take your hard drives and put you in federal holding. If you want to survive the night, you come with me now.”
“Where?” Sterling stammered, his grand illusion of untouchability crumbling into naked, pathetic terror. “Where can I go?”
May you like
“The old water tower on Route 9,” I lied smoothly, pulling him toward the open door. “I have a safe car there. Off the grid. Move your old bones or die in a cell.”
***
