Chapter 7 - Breach of the EstateThe Falconee estate sat on a sprawling fifty-acre bluff overlooking the Hudson River just north of Albany. Surrounded by a twelve-foot wrought-iron fence topped with razor wire and security cameras, it looked less like a home and more like a fortress belonging to a medieval warlord.
Mara’s rusted Ford F-250 rolled slowly down the private access road, stopping fifty yards from the heavy security gate.
In the truck bed, Julian Cross was gagged with duct tape, his muffled cries lost beneath the roar of the diesel engine. Bear stood behind the cab, his dark silhouette blending into the shadows of the tarp, his amber eyes fixed on the guard booth.
"The cameras on the gate feed directly into the security room in the East Wing," Roman instructed, leaning forward as he strapped a heavy leather harness across his chest, attaching a pair of steel forearm crutches he had scavenged from an old medical supply box in Mara’s basement. "There will be two guards inside the booth. They won't expect an attack from the front. They’ll expect a legal team or a delivery."
"And the cameras?" Mara asked, shifting the truck into park.
"Shoot them," Roman said simply.
Before Mara could even reach for the shotgun, the passenger door flew open. Bear didn't wait for a command. The massive mastiff vaulted over the side of the truck bed like a dark projectile, hitting the snow with zero sound and surging toward the security gate at terrifying speed.
The guard inside the booth looked up just in time to see a hundred and forty pounds of muscle smash against the reinforced glass with a deafening crash.
Before the guard could reach his holster, Bear’s heavy paws slammed into the electronic control panel, short-circuiting the gate mechanisms in a shower of blue sparks. The heavy iron gates groaned and swung slowly outward.
"Go!" Roman barked.
Mara slammed the truck into gear, roaring through the open gates and tearing up the curving asphalt driveway toward the grand neoclassical manor house.
Car doors slammed shut as they reached the front steps. Roman hauled his paralyzed body out of the passenger seat, catching his weight on the steel forearm crutches, his powerful upper body taking the strain of his dead limbs with grim, unbreakable determination.
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"Stay behind me," Roman ordered, holding a suppressed 9mm pistol he had pulled from beneath the truck seat.
"Don't flatter yourself," Mara said, racking the slide of her 10-gauge shotgun with a sharp, metallic clack. "I’m here to make sure you don't miss."
