Chapter 78 - The Road to Blackwood Sound
A winter blizzard was blowing down from the Canadian border by the time our five-vehicle federal convoy crossed the Maine state line on Interstate 95.
The highway was a barren ribbon of black ice, flanked by towering pines heavy with fresh, wet snow. Emily and Leo were secured at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard under the personal protection of the regional base commander—a close friend of Emily’s father. For the first time since Thanksgiving dinner had exploded into chaos, I knew my wife and son were behind impenetrable military-grade steel.
Now, it was time to finish the work Marcus Harrington had left undone.
I sat in the lead armored Suburban beside Marshal Harris, checking the slide on the SIG Sauer P320 he had issued me under a temporary federal deputy waiver. Outside, the headlights cut through thick, swirling sheets of white snow.
"Blackwood Sound is an isolated fortress," Harris warned, studying his digital tablet as the GPS routed us off the interstate onto a winding, unplowed coastal route. "The estate sits on a three-hundred-foot granite promontory. One private road in, steep cliffs on three sides, and the Atlantic churning against the rocks below. Amanda’s mercenaries have thermal optics and military-grade perimeter sensors. If we roll up the front gate, it’s an ambush."
"We're not rolling up the gate," I said, pointing to the jagged coastline on the navigation display. "Marcus built the boat house in a natural sea cave beneath the cliffs. During prohibition, his grandfather used it to run rum into Portland. There's a hydraulic cargo lift that connects the subterranean cellar directly to the house's master library."
"And Amanda doesn't know about it?" Harris asked.
"Julian knew about the house, but Marcus never trusted Julian with the original blueprints," I replied, feeling the heavy, cold weight of my father’s signet ring in my pocket—the one item retrieved from the Old Colony vault. "Marcus always believed Julian would try to kill him eventually. He built Blackwood Sound not as a vacation home, but as an escape redoubt."
Fifteen minutes later, our convoy killed their headlights two miles south of the estate.
The storm was howling now, masking the low rumble of our engines. We dismounted into knee-deep snow, fifteen tactical Marshals in white winter over-whites, their carbines fitted with suppressors.
Through the tree line, through the blinding curtain of white flakes, the dark, gothic silhouette of Blackwood Sound loomed against the stormy sky. Floodlights washed over the manicured, snow-covered lawns. Heavy diesel generators hummed in the distance.
On the front terrace, two heavily armed guards in black tactical gear paced back and forth, their rifles held at the low-ready.
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"Thermal scan confirms six hostiles on the ground floor," Harris whispered through his throat mic. "Two on the roof. And high-frequency data transmission coming from the basement vault. She’s downloading the archive now."
"The sea cave is beneath the southern cliff," I whispered back, pulling my tactical balaclava over my face. "Let’s take the backdoor."
