Adrien's POV
The stolen Mercedes was a coffin on wheels. Adrien drove it with a detached precision, the engine's purr feeling obscene against the silent scream in his skull. He'd changed in the woods, the tactical gear going back on over layers of cold-weather clothing. The burner phone was in his vest. The flashbangs were secured. His mind was a clean, white room where only the mission existed.
The plan had crystallized during the long, cold walk back to the road. Sarah's warning about a "hostage situation" had been the final piece. They wanted a narrative? He'd give them one. But not the one they were writing. If they were going to paint him as a dangerous, unstable veteran, he would show them what a truly dangerous, focused veteran looked like. Not skulking in shadows. Not hiding. Walking through the front door.
He parked the Mercedes in a discrete turnout a quarter-mile from the Oliver estate's main gate. He approached on foot, through the woods, but this time with a different purpose. He wasn't infiltrating. He was assessing the main approach as an avenue of assault.
The massive wrought-iron gates were closed, flanked by two stone pillars. A guard shack stood to one side, a single man inside, illuminated by a tablet's glow. Past the gates, the long, paved drive curved up through manicured lawns to the blazing mansion. Music and light spilled from it, a jarring beacon of normalcy in his night of hell.
He watched from the trees. Cars arrived in a steady stream, their headlights cutting the darkness. A valet in a red jacket would take the keys, and the guests men in black, women in jewels would glide up the steps and through the massive oak doors, which were held open by staff in white gloves.
They're all in there. The judge. The chief. The fathers. The sons. The entire corrupt ecosystem, gathered to congratulate itself on Veterans Day. The irony was so thick he could choke on it.
His original idea of a quiet infiltration, of exposing the video anonymously, was gone. That was fear. That was the action of a man who still believed he might need the system later. He didn't. The system was in that house, drinking champagne.
He needed a statement. A declaration of war so loud and undeniable they couldn't spin it, couldn't hide it. He needed to look them in the eye when he showed them what their sons had done.
He checked his gear one last time. No long gun. Just the vest, the tools, the phone. And himself. He took a final, settling breath, letting the last whispers of doubt, of fatherly grief, of civilian hesitation, blow away on the cold wind. What remained was the operator. The weapon.
He didn't creep toward the gate. He walked straight out of the tree line and onto the edge of the paved drive, fifty yards from the guard shack. He stood in plain view, a black-clad figure under the security lights. He began walking toward the gates, his boots hitting the pavement with a rhythmic, deliberate crunch, crunch, crunch.
The guard in the shack looked up from his tablet. He did a double-take. He stood up, peering out the window. He opened the shack door, stepping halfway out. "Hey! This is private property! You can't"
Adrien kept walking. He was thirty yards away now. The guard, a paunchy man in a cheap security uniform, unsnapped the retention strap on his holster. "Stop right there! I'm armed!"
Adrien didn't break stride. He didn't speak. His eyes, shadowed by the brim of his tactical cap, were fixed on the mansion beyond the gates. The guard fumbled his radio. "Gate to base, I've got a… a situation. One male, armed, approaching on foot."
Adrien reached the gates. They were ten feet tall, ornate, locked. The guard had drawn his pistol now, holding it in a shaky two-handed grip. "Don't move! Put your hands up!"
Adrien ignored him. He looked at the gate mechanism a simple electronic lock. He reached into a pouch on his vest and pulled out a compact, magnetic device with wires trailing from it. A lock bypass tool, military-grade. He slapped it onto the control box mounted on the stone pillar. There was a sharp pop and a fizzle of sparks. The gate's lock disengaged with a heavy clunk.
The guard's eyes bulged. "What the hell?"
Adrien put his shoulder against one of the heavy iron gates and pushed. It swung inward with a groaning protest. He walked through the opening.
"Stop!" the guard yelled, but his voice was thin with panic. He didn't fire. Adrien knew he wouldn't. He was rent-a-cop, not a soldier. Firing at an intruder on the judge's property was a liability nightmare. His job was to call it in, not stop it.
Adrien left him behind, radio crackling, and started up the long driveway. He walked right down the center, a lone, dark figure moving against the flow of light and laughter. Ahead, a arriving Lexus slowed, its headlights washing over him. The driver, a man in a tuxedo, gaped. Adrien didn't alter his course. He walked past the driver's side window, close enough to see the man's confused, then frightened face.
The mansion grew larger, its details sharper. He could hear the music clearly now a live string quartet. He could see shapes moving past the tall windows. His heart was a steady, heavy drum in his chest. No nerves. No fear. Just absolute focus. Primary objective: secure audience. Secondary objective: deliver message.
He reached the bottom of the broad, white-stone steps leading up to the main entrance. Two more security guards, these ones in dark suits and earpieces a higher grade than the gatehouse stood at the top. They'd been alerted. They were ready, hands inside their jackets, undoubtedly on weapons.
Adrien started up the steps, one at a time, his gaze fixed on the double oak doors between them. The guards moved to block the entrance.
"That's far enough, sir," the one on the left said, his voice professionally calm. "You need to turn around and leave."
Adrien reached the top step. He was now level with them. He stopped. He looked from one to the other. They were ex-military, he could tell from their posture. But they were security now. Their job was risk assessment, not valor.
"I'm here to see Judge Oliver," Adrien said, his voice low and flat.
"The judge is not available. You need to leave, or we will escort you off the property." The guard's hand tightened inside his jacket.
Adrien's eyes flicked past them, to the doors. "I'm not asking."
He moved. It wasn't an attack on the guards; it was a direct line to the doors. He took a sudden, long step to the right, around the guard on that side. The guard grabbed for his arm. Adrien's left hand shot up, deflecting the grab, while his right palm struck the man's chest in a sharp, stunning blow that knocked the wind from him and sent him stumbling back into his partner.
In the moment of confusion, Adrien turned, planted his boot, and kicked. Not at the guards, but at the door, right beside the handle. It was a breacher's kick, all his weight and training behind it.
The sound was catastrophic in the night a thunderous BANG that echoed off the mansion's stone face. The heavy oak door, built for grandeur, not defense, exploded inward, splintering around the lock. It swung wildly on its hinges, crashing against the interior wall.
The music from inside died instantly, cut off in a screech of strings.
Adrien stood in the shattered doorway, backlit by the exterior lights, a silhouette of menace. He stepped across the threshold into the grand foyer.
The scene before him was a frozen tableau of shock. The string quartet on a small dais had stopped playing, their bows suspended. Waiters holding trays of champagne flutes stood like statues. And ahead, through the soaring archway to the ballroom, a sea of tuxedos and gowns had turned as one, hundreds of faces reflecting identical expressions of stunned disbelief.
The air, once thick with perfume and chatter, was now charged with silent, electric dread.
He had their complete, undivided attention. Every eye in the mansion was on him. The stage was set. The mission was a go. Now, he had to walk into the heart of the lion's den and deliver his message.