Chapter 7 - THE TROJAN HORSEThe fog had turned into a heavy, swirling mist by the time we reached the perimeter of the Duca estate.
We didn’t go through the gates. Instead, Lorenzo used an old maintenance truck he kept hidden in a forestry depot three miles inland, driving us through an overgrown service road that cut directly through the dense northern woods.
I sat in the passenger seat, my knuckles white as I clutched the secure uplink drive in my pocket. In the back seat, Emma was quietly drawing pictures on a notepad with a purple crayon, entirely unfazed by the fact that we were infiltrating an armed fortress of violent criminals.
“When we get to the servants’ entrance,” Lorenzo instructed, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, “use your uniform keycard. Marco’s men replaced the front security codes, but they didn’t change the domestic staff registry. They think the maids are invisible.”
“Invisible until they try to kill us,” I muttered.
“If anyone stops you, tell them you were ordered by head housekeeping to prep the east wing for the evening memorial,” Lorenzo continued, his voice steady. “I’ll draw the primary security detail toward the front gates by making a deliberate noise at the old boathouse.”
I looked over at him. Even with the tactical jacket hiding the bandages, I could see the subtle strain in his posture. “You’re still too weak for a firefight.”
“I’m not planning on a firefight,” Lorenzo said, pulling a heavy, suppressed automatic pistol from the glove box and handing it to me. “I’m planning on a massacre if they touch my family.”
He paused, his eyes shifting momentarily toward Emma in the back seat before meeting mine. There was a sudden, intense gravity in his gaze that hadn't been there before.
“If things go sideways,” Lorenzo said quietly, “take Emma through the service elevator to the roof. A helicopter is parked on standby. Use the transponder in my jacket pocket to authorize takeoff.”
“And you?”
“I have a family reunion to attend.”
The truck rolled to a silent stop behind a row of thick weeping willows near the mansion’s rear delivery bays.
I took a deep breath, slipping the heavy pistol into the pocket of my maid’s apron, right beside Emma’s plastic toy first-aid kit.
“Stay close to Mama,” I whispered to Emma as I lifted her out of the truck.
She nodded solemnly, clutching her stuffed rabbit. “We’re on a secret mission, right Mama?”
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“Right, baby. A very important mission.”
I slipped through the heavy metal delivery doors into the cool, silent corridors of the mansion’s service wing, leaving Lorenzo standing in the mist as he moved toward the docks to detonate our diversion.
