Chapter 42 - The Iron Beneath the Hearth
"Turn off the lantern," the agent ordered. Her name, she finally admitted as she drew a suppressed semi-automatic pistol, was Miller—Inspector Miller with the Department of the Treasury's Special Enforcement Division.
Darkness flooded the living room as I pinched the wick. Outside, the night was alive with the sound of snapping hemlock branches and the rhythmic crunch of tactical boots on gravel. They weren’t rushing; they were sweeping the clearing with military precision.
"How did Eleanor get out?" I whispered, kneeling by the hearth. My ribs throbbed—a phantom reminder of Claire’s hands around my throat, of the linoleum floor where she had dragged me before Eleanor walked in with a cup of coffee and told me to be reasonable.
"She walked through the front doors of the federal annex at three in the morning," Miller said, tracking the window line. "A falsified federal transfer order signed by a judge who bought half of Henrico County with Arthur’s offshore money. By the time Roanoke realized the signature was forged, Eleanor was in an armored Suburban heading west."
"She hates the mountains," I muttered, my fingers sliding along the mortared seam between the river stones of the fireplace. "She used to say Black Oak smelled like decay and poor choices."
"She’ll come wherever the money is. Pull the third stone from the mantle base."
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I dug my fingertips into the cold lime mortar. It was loose. With a grinding scrape, a heavy rectangular block came free in my hands. Behind it lay no damp dust or spiderwebs, but a brushed-titanium casing sealed with red tamper-evident tape, bearing the crest of the Department of the Treasury dated nineteen-ninety-four.
Before I could reach in, the first rifle round shattered the front window, spraying safety glass across the braided rug.
