TWENTY NINE

TWENTY NINE
Morning brought rain, heavy and cold.

I woke to the sound of it drumming on the cabin roof, and for a moment, I thought it might be a sign to postpone our plans. But when I climbed down from the loft, everyone was already up and working.

"Rain's good," Hank said when he saw my expression. "Keeps tourists indoors, makes surveillance harder. We'll use it."

He had maps spread across the table, marked with routes and timing sequences. My mother sat beside him, adding her own notes about the property layout around Vincent's house.

"The cliff path is narrow," she was saying. "Maybe three feet wide in places, with a steep drop to the rocks below. Sarah and I used to hike it when we were young, but that was forty years ago. It might be washed out now."

"We'll check it today," Hank said. "Do a full reconnaissance of the approach."

"In this rain?"

"Especially in this rain. We need to know what conditions will be like if the weather turns bad during the festival."

Maddie was on her laptop, coordinating with Jim's media contacts. "I've got three backup livestream platforms lined up. If one gets shut down, we switch to another. And I'm setting up dead man's switches—if anything happens to me, all our evidence gets automatically uploaded to multiple servers."

"How long does it take to set that up?" I asked.

"Already done. I started working on it last night when I couldn't sleep."

I poured coffee, my hands still shaking slightly from too little rest and too much adrenaline. The plan was good, but the execution would require perfect timing and more than a little luck.

"What's our biggest vulnerability?" I asked.

Hank didn't hesitate. "Communication. Once we split up, we'll be relying on cell phones and radios in an area where Vincent can jam signals if he wants to."

"Can he do that?"

"If he's prepared for it, yes. The Torrino family has access to military-grade jamming equipment."

"So what do we do?"

"We use old-school backup. Visual signals, predetermined timing, multiple contingency plans."

The rain intensified, sheets of water visible through the cabin windows. Jim checked his weather app and frowned.

"The storm's supposed to last through tomorrow morning. Festival organizers are already talking about postponing."

"Will they?" my mother asked.

"Doubtful. The Founder's Day Festival brings in too much tourism money. They'll run it rain or shine."

Which meant we had to be ready for wet conditions, poor visibility, and tourists in rain gear making surveillance more difficult.

"Let's go," Hank said, grabbing a waterproof jacket. "Elise, you're with me. We'll scout the cliff approach while it's still raining."

"What about the rest of us?" Maddie asked.

"You and Jim stay here, keep monitoring the news and social media. Mrs. Hartwell, you should rest. Save your strength for the main event."

My mother looked like she wanted to argue, but exhaustion won out. She nodded and settled back into her chair by the fire.

The rain was worse than it looked from the inside. Cold and driving, it soaked through my jacket within minutes. Hank led the way through the forest, moving with the confidence of someone who knew these woods well.

"How far?" I asked, raising my voice over the rain.

"Two miles to the access road. Another mile along the cliff path to where we can see Vincent's house."

The hike was brutal. Mud made the trail treacherous, and low-hanging branches whipped water into our faces. But Hank kept a steady pace, checking back periodically to make sure I was keeping up.

"You're doing good," he called back at one point.

"Liar. I'm dying."

"You're doing good for someone who hasn't been in the field for a long time."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"It's supposed to be the truth."

We reached the access road after an hour of hiking. It was barely more than a fire trail, muddy and rutted, clearly not used often. Perfect for our purposes.

"Vincent's property is about a mile that way," Hank pointed west, where the road curved along the cliff edge. "The main gate is on the east side, visible from the highway. But this approach from the west is hidden by trees."

We followed the road carefully, staying in the tree line where we couldn't be seen from the house. The rain helped, providing natural cover and limiting visibility.

When we finally caught sight of Vincent's house, I understood why he'd chosen this location. It sat on the highest point of the cliff, a modern structure of glass and stone that probably cost more than I'd earn in ten lifetimes. 

But it was also a fortress. High walls, security cameras at every corner, probably motion sensors hidden throughout the grounds.

"How do we get past all that?" I asked.

"We don't. We go under it." Hank pointed to where the cliff face dropped away below the house. "There's a sea cave down there that connects to the property through an old smuggler's tunnel. Vincent probably doesn't even know it exists."

"How do you know about it?"

"Because I helped design security for houses like this. You always leave yourself a back door, just in case."

"Does Vincent know you helped design his security?"

"He was using my old plans as a template. But I was careful never to document the tunnel. Too dangerous to have that information on paper."

We circled around to where we could see the approach to the cave. The path down was steep and exposed, carved into the cliff face by centuries of weather. In this rain, it looked suicidal.

"We'll have to rope down," Hank said, assessing the route. "It's about sixty feet to the cave entrance. Another hundred yards through the tunnel to where it comes up inside the property walls."

"And you're sure Vincent doesn't know about this?"

"As sure as I can be. The tunnel was built in the 1920s by bootleggers. Most of the original records were destroyed during Prohibition. The only reason I know about it is because I spent weeks researching the history of this coastline when I first got to town."

"Why?"

"Because knowing escape routes is what keeps you alive in my former line of work."

We watched the house for another hour, noting patterns in the security patrols, counting cameras, looking for blind spots. The rain made it difficult, but we got what we needed.

"Two guards on the main gate," Hank noted. "One roving patrol inside the walls. Cameras have about sixty percent coverage of the grounds, with blind spots near the garage and the south wall."

"That's a lot of security for a legitimate businessman."

"Vincent stopped pretending to be legitimate a long time ago."