Chapter 18 - The Siege of Sterling Manor
The flashing red and blue strobe lights illuminated the driving rain outside the estate, casting a chaotic, demonic glow over the limestone mansion. Six black tactical SUVs with heavily tinted windows had smashed through the iron gates, surrounding the main entrance.
A man in a charcoal tactical windbreaker bearing the seal of the United States Marshals stepped out with a bullhorn. Beside him stood a woman wearing a tailored cashmere trench coat, her raven hair slicked back, her face hidden behind oversized dark sunglasses despite the dawn darkness.
Clara Sterling.
"DANIEL STERLING!" the bullhorn blared over the roar of the ocean wind. "THIS IS DEPUTY DIRECTOR MACKENZIE. YOU ARE ORDERED TO EXIT THE RESIDENCE WITH HANDS VISIBLE. SURRENDER THE MINORS EMMA STERLING AND LEO STERLING PURSUANT TO FEDERAL DISTRICT WRIT 409-B. ANY RESISTANCE WILL BE MET WITH LETHAL FORCE."
Inside the flooded coal tunnels beneath the estate, the water was waist-deep on Daniel. He was carrying Emma on his shoulders, while Arthur helped Sarah navigate the slippery, stone-lined canal that led toward the private marina.
The sound of mechanical breaching charges echoed through the tunnels—*THOOM! THOOM!*
The tactical teams had blown the steel doors of the manor.
"They're inside the house," Arthur whispered, shivving in the freezing runoff. "We have five minutes before their thermal scopes sweep the sub-levels."
"Keep moving," Daniel growled. "The boathouse has the Hatteras 70 moored in the slip. The fuel tanks are full. If we can reach the open waters of Massachusetts Bay before their harbor patrol scrambles, we can reach international waters within forty minutes."
They crawled through the rusty iron exit grate of the coal chute, emerging into the damp, dark interior of the private boathouse. The massive luxury yacht sat quietly in its concrete slip, bobbing gently with the swell of the incoming tide.
Daniel set Emma down on the wooden dock, turning to help Sarah out of the chute.
Suddenly, the blinding glare of two high-intensity marine floodlights cut through the boathouse windows, illuminating the dock in stark, clinical white.
Standing on the deck of the yacht, arms crossed over her chest, was a woman holding a suppressed MP5 submachine gun.
Behind her stood two heavily armed private operators in unmarked black combat fatigues.
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"You always were predictable, Daniel," Clara Sterling said, stepping down the boarding ramp onto the dock. She took off her dark sunglasses, her emerald eyes glittering with cold triumph. "Did you really think I wouldn't have the boathouse covered? I wrote the emergency evacuation protocol for this house eight years ago."
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