Chapter 8
Grace froze, her blood running cold. She looked toward the heavy wooden door as the sound of splintering wood echoed from the frame. Eleanor wasn't alone; heavy, rhythmic thuds indicated that someone was using a heavy iron crowbar to break the locks.
“Julian,” Grace whispered, her voice tight with panic. “She’s going to get in.”
Julian didn’t look up from the control panel. His fingers danced across the rusted knobs and dials of the transmitter, adjusting the frequency modulation until a steady green signal light flickered on the analog display.
“She’s bluffing,” Julian said, though the sweat on his forehead betrayed his own anxiety. “Eleanor cares about one thing above all else: her reputation and her freedom. If she breaks down this door and harms us here, there’s no corporate spin that can save her from a murder charge.”
“You don’t know her,” Grace said, standing up and stepping protectively in front of the corner where the golden retriever was whimpering softly. “She doesn’t care about spin anymore, Mr. Vance. Look at her eyes tonight. She’s cornered, and a cornered animal will tear anything apart to survive.”
A loud crack split the air as the top hinge of the boathouse door gave way, tilting the heavy wood inward at an unnatural angle. A gloved hand reached through the gap, sliding the wooden security beam out of its brackets with a sharp clatter.
The door swung wide open, revealing two towering men in black tactical gear, their faces hidden behind dark balaclavas. Behind them stood Eleanor, her white dress immaculate despite the mud and rain, holding a small, polished silver revolver in her right hand.
“How touching,” Eleanor said, stepping over the threshold and into the dim, amber-lit boathouse. She raised the gun, pointing it steadily at Julian’s chest. “A modern-day Robin Hood, trying to save the little maid and her worthless stray.”
Julian slowly stood up from the workbench, placing his body between Eleanor and the transmission console. His expression was completely devoid of fear, replaced by a profound, piercing disappointment.
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“Put the gun down, Eleanor,” Julian said, his voice dangerously low. “The data packet is already halfway to the Department of Justice. Even if you kill us both right now, the audit protocol is hardcoded. You’ve lost.”
Eleanor’s hand didn't shake. Her finger rested lightly on the trigger. “I haven’t lost anything, Julian. You’re the one who’s going down for corporate malfeasance, tax evasion, and a tragic murder-suicide out here by the lake. The police report is already written.”
