Chapter 13 - The Empty Cottage
The drive to Charles's secluded cottage felt agonizingly slow, despite Grant pushing his unmarked cruiser well past the speed limit. The flashing red and blue lights reflected off the wet asphalt, a frantic rhythm that matched my racing pulse. Charles had risked everything—even staging his own death—to help us expose the criminal underbelly of our family's empire. He was supposed to be safe now, living quietly under police protection.
When we arrived, the patrol car was already parked in the driveway. The front door of the charming, ivy-covered stone cottage was wide open, swinging gently in the cold wind.
"Stay behind me," Grant ordered, drawing his service weapon.
I followed closely as Grant and Ruiz cleared the first floor. The living room was perfectly tidy. The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers. A half-empty teacup rested on the mahogany side table next to a leather armchair. There were no signs of a struggle. No overturned furniture, no broken glass, no blood. It was as if Charles had simply vanished into thin air.
"Clear," Ruiz called out from the kitchen. "Back door is locked from the inside."
I walked into the small study at the back of the house. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves filled with first editions and historical texts. On the center of his heavy oak desk sat a single, solitary object illuminated by a small brass reading lamp.
It was another heavy, cream-colored card.
I didn't need to read the faded gold lettering to know what it said, but I stepped closer anyway. Grant moved beside me, his flashlight cutting through the dim room.
A traitor to the bloodline forfeits his right to peace. The ledger must be balanced.
"They took him," I whispered, the crushing weight of guilt settling heavily on my shoulders. "He survived decades of this madness, and they just walked in and took him."
"How?" Ruiz asked in disbelief, joining us in the study. "We had an undercover unit parked two blocks away. Nobody saw a vehicle approach. Nobody saw him leave."
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Grant carefully bagged the card using a pair of tweezers. "Because they didn't come by road." He pointed his flashlight toward the large bay window that overlooked the dense, sprawling woods behind the cottage—woods that eventually led to a private airstrip three miles away.
"They hiked in, took him by surprise, and marched him out through the trees," Grant concluded grimly. "The new Chairman isn't just powerful. He's a ghost. And he's already two steps ahead of us."
