Chapter 7 - The Judges' QuartersThe black Lincoln slid past the wrought-iron security gates of Ventnor Heights without slowing down, the heavy tires crunching silently over the frozen gravel of Judge Arthur Thorne’s private estate.
It was 2:15 AM.
The sprawling colonial-brick mansion sat perched directly on the bay, its dark windows reflecting the moonlight like dead eyes. No security guards patrolled the grounds; Judge Thorne operated under the arrogant delusion that his judicial title made him untouchable in a city built on Moretti blood.
He was about to receive a violent education in local history.
I killed the car's headlights a hundred yards down the drive, letting the Lincoln coast to a silent stop beside a cluster of wind-bent pine trees.
Maya sat in the passenger seat, unbuttoning the oversized engineer's coat and revealing her municipal cartographer’s uniform underneath. She reached down, pulling a heavy aluminum tablet from her canvas satchel.
“The mansion’s security system is hardwired into the municipal fiber-optic grid,” she said, her fingers dancing across the screen with practiced speed. “If I tap into the junction box by the side patio, I can lock every smart-lock and override every interior deadbolt in the house before your men reach the front porch.”
I looked over at her, resting my arm across the center console.
“You’ve mapped this house before.”
“Of course I have,” she said without looking up. “Judge Thorne’s municipal expansion committee commissioned the original architectural audit of this entire district last year. His estate was built over a reclaimed marshland. The foundation piers are sinking two inches every decade.”
“Remind me to send him a thank-you note for the structural instability,” I murmured.
Maya glanced up, a faint, sharp smile touching her lips. “Give me thirty seconds.”
She stepped out of the car into the freezing night air, moving with quiet, purposeful grace toward the side patio. I watched from the driver’s seat as she pried open a utility panel, her fingers connecting a series of bypass cables to her tablet.
A soft, electronic chirp echoed from the mansion.
Every exterior light on the property flickered, turned red for three seconds, and then went completely dark.
From the shadows of the pine trees, Barrett and four armed capos materialized beside my window, their dark wool coats blending seamlessly with the midnight fog.
May you like
“System’s locked down,” I told them, opening my door. “Front door is wide open. No noise unless I give the word.”
We moved across the manicured lawn like ghosts, stepping through the mahogany front doors of the Thorne estate into a vast, marble-floored foyer that smelled faintly of expensive cigar smoke and old leather.
Related Stories
