Chapter 4 - The Southern Fortress
The Thorne family estate in Charleston was a sprawling, arrogant display of generational wealth. High wrought-iron gates, security cameras perched like metallic gargoyles, and acres of manicured lawns designed to keep the world out. I parked the battered Honda in a public lot two miles down the road and waited for the sun to sink below the horizon.
I knew the layout of this property from childhood summers. I knew the blind spot in the camera grid near the old weeping willow on the east wall. Moving through the shadows, ignoring the throbbing agony in my recovering feet, I scaled the stone wall and dropped silently onto the damp grass inside.
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I crept toward the massive detached garage at the rear of the property. The windows were blacked out, but the padlock on the side door was a basic master lock. A quick strike with the heavy handle of my knife shattered the casing. I slipped inside and flicked on my flashlight.
There they were. The three towable tiny homes. They hadn't destroyed them yet; they were hiding them. I moved to David's Escalade parked next to them. I needed something—a dashcam, a navigation history, anything that proved their premeditated departure. I jimmied the car door open and plugged a USB drive into the onboard computer, downloading the vehicle's GPS logs. As the loading bar ticked up, a sudden noise froze my blood. The sharp, mechanical click of a revolver cocking directly behind my head.
