At three minutes to four o'clock, the heavy iron security gates at the end of the long cobblestone driveway clicked open. A sleek black luxury SUV pulled up to the front entrance of the villa.
Mr. Howell stood in the shadows of the dark second-floor balcony, watching through heavy binoculars as Victor stepped out of the passenger side, wearing an expensive tailored suit. Walking right beside him was Arthur Pendelton, carrying a thick leather briefcase containing the fraudulent legal documents.
Victor: Make sure the driver keeps the engine idling, Arthur. We grab the remaining stock certificates from the floor safe and we head straight to Teterboro Airport.
Arthur: Did you make sure the maid kept her mouth shut?
Victor: That girl is terrified of her own shadow. She won't say a word. And Victoria is locked tight in the sub-basement. She'll be down there for days before anyone realizes David’s flight doesn't land until tomorrow night.
Arthur: Excellent. By the time David returns from Chicago, the offshore accounts will be completely emptied, and the trust funds will be legally transferred to our holding firm in Panama.
The front door unlocked with a quiet electronic chime as Victor used his stolen master key card. The two men stepped into the sunlit foyer, their leather shoes echoing off the white marble floor as they walked toward the study.
Arthur: The safe is wide open just like you left it. Grab the bond certificates and let’s get out of here.
Victor: Wait... look at the floor.
Victor stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at the marble tile near the kitchen entrance. A trail of wet, bloody footprints led directly from the kitchen toward the grand staircase leading to the second floor.
Arthur: Is that... blood? Did Victoria break out of the sub-basement?
Victor: That’s impossible! That iron door has a three-point deadbolt! Nobody can open that door from the inside!
Mr. Howell: She didn't open it from the inside, Victor. I opened it for her.
Victor and Arthur snapped their heads upward in absolute shock. Standing at the top of the grand marble staircase was Mr. Howell, dressed in a dark suit, his arms folded calmly across his chest as he glared down at them with icy, deadly authority.
Victor: David?! What... what are you doing here?! Your flight isn't supposed to land until tomorrow!
Mr. Howell: I took a private jet back three hours early because I had a feeling my house was infested with rats.
Arthur: David... listen to me, this isn't what it looks like! We came here to check on your property security!
Mr. Howell: Shut up, Arthur! You stand there holding a briefcase full of forged power-of-attorney documents and tell me you came to check on my security?
Victor: Arthur, pull the car around right now! Get out to the driveway!
Victor reached into his inner suit jacket, pulling out a heavy black handgun and aiming it straight up the staircase at Mr. Howell’s chest.
Victor: You should have stayed in Chicago, David! You just ruined your only chance to walk away from this alive!