Chapter 13 - The Trap at Dawn
The sun had barely crested the horizon when I stepped out onto the rear terrace of Hale Manor. The air was crisp, carrying the salty tang of the distant Atlantic. I wore a heavy black wool coat over my suit, my right hand resting comfortably inside the pocket, wrapped around the cold steel grip of my Sig Sauer.
Raymond Vance stood at the edge of the stone balustrade, binoculars pressed to his eyes, scanning the tree line where the private gravel road wound through the estate.
"Morning, Boss," Raymond said without turning around, his voice steady and professional as always. "Perimeter's quiet. No unusual traffic on the ridge. Though the delivery truck for the kitchens is twenty minutes late."
"Let it be late," I said, walking up beside him and leaning against the stone railing.
Raymond lowered the binoculars and clipped them to his belt. He looked calm—too calm. Not a single muscle in his face betrayed a hint of panic. That was the mark of a veteran operative, or a sociopath who had lived a double life for too long.
"You've been quiet all week, Julian," Raymond said, glancing sideways at me. "Ever since the North Shore raid. People are starting to wonder how the syndicate is going to restructure without Vincent."
"People don't need to wonder," I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the distant tree line. "They just need to follow orders."
"Of course." Raymond paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "By the way, did Marcus find anything interesting in Vincent’s private safe? I heard rumors there were some old financial records from the European accounts."
The trap snapped shut.
I turned my head slowly, locking my dark eyes onto his. "How did you know the safe contained European financial records, Raymond? Marcus didn't log that into the general dispatch."
Raymond didn't flinch. He didn't stutter. He simply met my gaze with an icy, professional stare.
"Because I helped Vincent set those accounts up eight years ago," Raymond said smoothly, his hand dropping toward his sidearm with terrifying speed.
Before his fingers could wrap around the grip of his gun, I drew my Sig Sauer from my coat pocket and fired.
May you like
Crack.
The bullet caught Raymond cleanly in the right shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him hard against the stone balustrade. He let out a sharp gasp, his weapon clattering uselessly against the flagstone terrace.
