Chapter 4 - The Men Beyond the Gate
“Step back, Mr. Prescott,” Agent Miller ordered, stepping between Graham and the huddle on the floor. Two other agents flanked Graham, their hands resting on their sidearms. “Graham Prescott, you are under arrest for attempted murder in the first degree, conspiracy to commit murder, corporate embezzlement, wire fraud, and the obstruction of justice.”
Graham scoffed, straightening his posture, attempting to summon the towering presence that usually terrified boardroom executives. “Attempted murder? On what grounds? The woman is alive! Look at her! She’s breathing!”
“Attempted murder is still a felony, Graham,” Rebecca said, slowly rising to her feet while keeping both girls tucked securely behind her waist. Nora and Sophie gripped the gray cotton fabric of her maid's uniform as if it were a life raft in a hurricane. “And then, of course, there’s the actual murder of Marcus Vance. Eric found the burner phone you used to wire the payment to the fentanyl supplier in Portland. The feds matched the IMEI number to the private tower on this property.”
Graham’s eyes darted toward the French doors that opened out to the terrace.
The rain was falling in blinding sheets now, drumming against the glass. Beyond the terrace lay the sprawling grounds—fourteen acres of manicured lawn, the private helipad, and the wooded trails that led down to the private marina where his 70-foot yacht was perpetually fueled and docked.
If he could reach the study.
If he could lock the biometric vault door in his private office, he had access to three million dollars in untraceable bearer bonds, a second passport under the name of Julian Ross, and an encrypted satellite terminal that could route a helicopter to his location within six minutes.
Graham took a slow half-step backward. “Miller, you know who my counsel is. Arthur Pendelton at Skadden. Call him. Let’s handle this with dignity. Let me at least go to my study and change out of this jacket.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Graham,” Miller said, unclipping a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Graham didn't turn around.
In a flash of desperate, athletic violence, Graham grabbed a heavy bronze sculpture of a rearing stallion from the entry table and hurled it directly at Miller’s head.
Miller dodged, the heavy bronze grazing his shoulder and smashing through the glass cabinet behind him with a deafening explosion of shards.
“Gun!” one of the agents shouted.
Graham didn't draw a gun. He turned on his heel and sprinted through the arched hallway toward the east wing of the mansion, his leather shoes gripping the runner rugs as he took the corner with frantic speed.
“Eric, get the girls to the back vehicle!” Rebecca shouted, not waiting for the agents to react.
Her maternal instincts, honed by years of hyper-vigilance, overrode every protocol. She knew what was in the east wing. She had designed the floor plan of this estate with the architect ten years ago, before Graham had turned it into a prison.
She knew about the reinforced doors.
She knew about the yacht.
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And she knew that if Graham Prescott made it off this estate alive, her daughters would spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders.
***
