Chapter 5 - The Lake Forest Trap
The iron gates of the Lake Forest estate loomed out of the dense morning fog like the jaws of a prehistoric beast. My Mercedes crawled along the crushed-limestone driveway, its lights off, cloaked by the thick canopy of ancient oak trees that lined the perimeter.
Michael Reed sat in the passenger seat, his night-vision goggles strapped to his forehead, checking the charge on his suppressed rifle. “We’re fifty yards from the main conservatory,” he muttered. “Thermal imaging shows at least four guards on the west patio, two near the main entrance.”
“Cut the power to the estate’s grid,” I instructed quietly, killing the engine and letting the car coast to a silent stop behind a row of manicured hedges.
Within seconds, Michael tapped his tactical tablet. Across the compound, the brilliant floodlights illuminating the sprawling colonial mansion flickered once and died, plunging the property into total darkness.
“Move,” I whispered.
We vaulted the low stone wall, moving with the lethal, silent efficiency of men who had survived decades of Chicago’s underworld wars. We neutralized the two perimeter guards on the west patio without firing a shot—a quick sweep of the legs, a chokehold, and a heavy sedative injection from Michael’s medical kit.
We slipped through the unlocked French doors of the conservatory, the scent of crushed orchids and damp earth filling the air. The interior of the mansion was dead silent, save for the grandfather clock ticking heavily in the grand foyer.
As we stepped out into the main hallway, a soft click echoed from the top of the grand staircase.
I froze, raising my weapon.
Standing at the top of the stairs, bathed in the pale moonlight pouring through the skylight, wasn't Viktor Vance.
It was Claire.
She wore a simple black cashmere sweater that hugged her swollen seven-month belly, her hair tied back in a loose knot. She didn't look terrified. She looked serene, almost regal, resting one hand gently against her stomach.
“You shouldn't have come here, Daniel,” she said, her voice carrying clearly across the cavernous foyer.
“Claire,” I breathed, lowering my gun slightly, my chest aching. “Get away from them. You’re in danger. Viktor is playing you—he’s a monster—”
“The only monster in this house is standing at the bottom of these stairs holding a gun,” she interrupted, her voice entirely devoid of warmth.
Footsteps echoed from the gallery above. Viktor Vance appeared beside her, sliding a casual arm around her shoulders. Claire didn't flinch away from his touch. In fact, she leaned into it slightly.
My vision turned blood-red.
“Get your hands off my wife,” I roared, raising the Sig Sauer directly at Viktor’s chest.
Viktor smiled, an easy, arrogant grin, and reached into his jacket pocket. He didn't pull a weapon. Instead, he pulled out a small, velvet-lined adoption document and tossed it down the stairs. It fluttered through the air before landing at my feet.
I glanced down at the paper. My breath caught in my throat.
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It wasn't an adoption document. It was a pre-nuptial amendment and a paternity acknowledgment—signed by Claire three years ago, before we were even married.
And the father’s name listed wasn't Daniel Carter. It was Viktor Vance.
