Chapter 5 - The Rat in the WallsThe basement of the Lake Forest estate was not built to store wine.
Beneath the manicured lawns, miles away from the prying eyes of local police and federal regulators, lay a subterranean network of concrete tunnels originally constructed during the Prohibition era. Dominic Vale had modernized them, turning them into a private transit hub and a secure panic shelter.
At least, that’s what he thought.
Clara walked a few paces behind Dominic, clutching a first-aid kit against her bruised ribs while casting nervous glances into the damp darkness. Noah was carried securely in the arms of one of Dominic’s most trusted guards, fast asleep from sheer exhaustion, his burned fingers wrapped in sterile gauze.
They stood before a reinforced steel security door at the end of the north corridor—a door that was supposed to be welded shut.
It was standing wide open.
A cutting torch sat on the concrete floor, still hissing faintly, its fuel tank empty.
“She sold us out,” Dominic said quietly, his voice echoing off the damp concrete walls.
Moments later, two guards dragged a struggling figure into the dim overhead light.
It was Mrs. Hargrove. Her elegant gray hair was disheveled, her pearl brooch crooked, and her sharp, aristocratic features twisted into a mask of bitter panic. The veneer of untouchable sophistication had completely vanished, leaving behind a terrified middle-aged woman caught in the gears of a machine she couldn't control.
“Mr. Vale!” Mrs. Hargrove shrieked, struggling against the heavy grip of the guards. “You can’t do this! I’ve served this family for twenty years! I raised your wife—”
“You let The Board into my home,” Dominic interrupted. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't yell. He walked toward her with the slow, inevitable momentum of an avalanche. “You gave them the architectural blueprints. You disabled the pressure sensors on the north perimeter last Tuesday.”
“They have my grandson!” Mrs. Hargrove sobbed, her composure entirely shattering as she collapsed onto her knees. “In a facility in Bucharest! They said if I didn't let the team through the service tunnel to find the boy... they would kill him, Mr. Vale! What would you have done if it was Noah?”
Dominic stopped inches away from her. He looked down at the woman who had poured tea in his kitchen every morning.
“I would have burned their entire organization to ash before I let them touch a hair on my son’s head,” Dominic replied coldly. “You traded my family for yours. A bad trade, Mrs. Hargrove.”
He motioned to the guards. “Take her to the eastern safehouse. Let our friends from federal intelligence know we have a package for them. And tell them if they drag their feet, I’ll handle the interrogation myself.”
As Mrs. Hargrove was dragged away, screaming curses and desperate pleas, Clara swallowed hard. She looked at Dominic, realizing the terrifying depth of the war they were trapped in.
“The tunnel leads straight into the old carriage house,” Clara pointed out, shining a flashlight down the dark concrete corridor. “If they used it to get in tonight, they could have planted anything anywhere in this mansion.”
Dominic turned to her, his slate-grey eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, unsettling intensity.
May you like
“Not anywhere,” Dominic corrected. “There is only one place in this estate that matters. The place where my wife kept her safe.”
He stepped closer to Clara, his expression unreadable. “And according to the logs, you spent three hours cleaning that exact room this afternoon.”
