Chapter 7 - The Ambush
Trevor was stupid, but he was cornered. And cornered animals bite.
That night, the alarms at the estate tripped.
I was sitting in my father’s study when the security feed on my laptop flared red. Motion detected at the rear conservatory—the exact place Cynthia had kept my grandfather in the crate.
I didn't call the police. Not yet. I wanted to look him in the eye.
I slipped out of the study, moving silently through the dark, cavernous hallways of the mansion. The military had trained me for urban warfare, room-clearing, and stealth. Trevor was a drunk rich kid stumbling through a house he didn't own.
I found him in the conservatory, using a crowbar to smash open the wall panel where my father kept his emergency cash reserves.
"Looking for a payout, Trevor?" I asked from the shadows.
He spun around, dropping the crowbar and pulling a small, silver revolver from his jacket. His hand was shaking so badly he could barely aim it.
"Give me the cash, Sarah!" he screamed, his eyes bloodshot. "I know there's a hundred grand in this wall! Give it to me and I'll leave!"
"The cash is gone," I said, stepping slowly into the moonlight. "I moved it yesterday. You're out of time, Trevor. The bookies are coming for you, and the police have the audio of you and your mother talking about the antifreeze."
His face collapsed. The gun wavered. "She made me do it! She bought the antifreeze! I just needed the money!"
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"Drop the gun," I commanded, using my command voice—the one that snapped recruits to attention.
Trevor sobbed, dropping the revolver to the marble floor. He fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands. I kicked the gun away and zip-tied his wrists behind his back.
