Chapter 7: The Boathouse Infiltration
The afternoon sun struggled to pierce through the thick coastal fog as Tom’s old pickup truck crept down a disused logging trail three miles north of the Ravenscroft estate. The engine was muffled with an old wool blanket tucked under the hood to dampen the sound. Tom killed the ignition, killing the headlights as they rolled to a stop beneath a canopy of towering redwoods dripping with moisture.
"This is as close as I get you," Tom whispered, checking the safety of a heavy-duty wire cutter he had stashed in his glove compartment. "The eastern ridge drops straight down into the rocky cove. From there, it's a half-mile hike up the drainage culvert to the old boathouse cellar."
Clara reached across the seat and squeezed Tom’s rough, weathered hand. "Be careful, Tom. If Julian’s security catches you, they won't call the police. They'll make it look like a tragic accident on the cliffs, just like they planned for me."
"Don't you worry about me, Clara. I survived three tours in places a lot worse than a rich man's backyard," Tom muttered, offering a reassuring grin before slipping out into the cold mist.
Clara watched him disappear into the gray timber, her heart hammering against her ribs. She stayed in the truck, clutching the burner phone in her lap, monitoring the encrypted GPS tracker Tom had clipped to his belt. The glowing green dot on the small screen moved slowly along the contour lines of the coastal cliff, descending into the ravine and then steadily climbing toward the estate perimeter.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The green dot stopped moving near the eastern stone wall. Clara held her breath, watching the tiny blinking light. Did he trip a silent alarm? Did they catch him?
Suddenly, the dot pulsed twice—the prearranged signal confirming he had breached the perimeter and was inside the cellar.
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Back at the estate, Tom moved through the cool, damp darkness of the stone-lined subterranean passages beneath the main house. The air smelled of old wine and damp earth. He navigated by the dim beam of a pocket-sized red flashlight, following Mrs. Gable’s detailed mental map. He reached the heavy iron latch of the service stairwell leading up into the residential quarters. It gave a faint metallic squeak as he pushed it open, but the heavy oak door above muffled any sound from reaching the main hallway.
True to her word, Mrs. Gable was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, standing beside a laundry cart filled with fresh linens. She didn't look at him directly, maintaining the perfect posture of a lifelong servant as she pointed a gloved finger down the mahogany-paneled corridor toward the master study.
