Chapter 7 - Return to Kensington Manor
The sun had climbed high into the midday sky by the time I returned to Kensington Manor, but the atmosphere around the estate had shifted from serene high-society luxury to an armed camp. Through the tinted binoculars I kept in my glove box, I surveyed the grounds from a wooded ridge half a mile above the property. The wrought-iron gates were chained shut, two black perimeter security SUVs were parked on the circular driveway, and three armed contractors patrolled the manicured lawns with tactical rifles slung across their chests.
A frontal assault through the main gate was impossible for a seventy-two-year-old man with a bad knee. But I didn't need to go through the front door; I knew how estates like this were constructed, and more importantly, I knew how security contractors operated when they thought they were dealing with an amateur.
I drove my Chevy two miles down the back country road, parking behind a dense thicket of blackberry bushes near the estate’s old drainage culvert. I retrieved my walking stick, checked the charge on my tactical strobe, and slipped a pair of heavy leather handler’s gloves into my jacket pockets.
Moving with agonizing patience, I navigated the dry creek bed that ran along the southern boundary of the Kensington property. The stone perimeter wall was eight feet high and topped with iron spikes, but an old brick utility archway allowing the drainage creek to pass through had been covered by a rusted iron grate—one that hadn't been inspected by Julian’s expensive groundskeepers in decades.
Using the steel ferrule of my walking stick as a lever, I pried the rusted masonry pins loose from the ancient brickwork. The grate swung inward with a low, metallic groan that was masked by the rushing sound of the estate’s massive bronze fountain fifty yards away. I slipped through the opening, dropping silently into the shadows behind the carriage house—right beside the very chain-link dog run where Sarah had been caged just hours before.
The pen was empty now, the brass padlock hanging open on the latch. As I pressed my back against the brick wall of the maintenance shed, assessing the open lawn between me and the main mansion’s side terrace, a low, guttural growl vibrated through the air just twelve inches from my left shoulder.
I didn't flinch. I didn't turn my head quickly. I slowly lowered my walking stick to the ground and let my hands hang open and relaxed at my sides.
Ares was standing in the narrow alleyway between the shed and the carriage house. The Malinois was off his leash, his dark muzzle wrinkled, his muscles coiled like high-tension steel wire. One of the perimeter guards must have released him to act as a roving biological sensor along the rear perimeter.
For three seconds, man and beast stared at each other in the deep shadows. The dog’s ears twitched, catching the familiar scent of my flannel jacket and the calm, slow rhythm of my heart rate. Unlike the armed mercenaries, Ares didn't operate on money or malice; he operated on the pure, ancient language of pack hierarchy and leadership.
I took half a step forward, closing the distance without raising my hands, and murmured in a soft, low German rasp—the exact tonal frequency used by European police handlers during stealth infiltration exercises.
"Hier, Ares. Fuss."
The Malinois didn't bark. The tense ridge of fur along his spine slowly smoothed down. He stepped out of the shadows, pressed his heavy, cold muzzle against my open palm for a brief second of recognition, and then swung his body smoothly alongside my left leg, dropping into a textbook military heel position. Julian had bought a weapon, but he had never earned the dog's loyalty. In one sentence, I had taken his strongest defender and made him my own.
With the seventy-pound combat dog glued silently to my side, I moved from the shadows of the carriage house toward the French doors leading into Julian’s private study at the rear of the mansion.
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Through the glass, I could see Julian and Eleanor standing by a massive mahogany desk. Three open leather briefcases were stacked on the polished wood, and Julian was frantically stuffing bundles of hundred-dollar bills, bearer bonds, and foreign passports into them. Eleanor was on a satellite phone, her face tight with panic as she barked orders at whoever was arranging their flight out of the county.
They were running. But as I placed my hand on the brass handle of the terrace door, I knew their flight had just been permanently canceled.
