CHAPTER 1

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He turned off the pavement onto a dirt road used on previous reconnaissance. The service road had long been abandoned. The entrance practically invisible from the main road in either direction. He drove in about a hundred yards. Beyond that, the dirt road was completely blocked by overgrowth. He carefully turned the car around to face out toward the main road, switched off the lights, shut down the engine, and sat silently.

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The darkness of the forest wrapped its arms around the vehicle like a black mourning shroud. The thick forest canopy filtered out all but splinters of light making the vehicle practically invisible. No one from the main road would see him, even if they were looking. From his cloaked vantage point, any passing headlights would simply appear as fireflies fluttering through the thicket.

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The black midsize SUV he sat veiled in was temporarily acquired after hours from a used car lot across town. He watched momentarily to monitor the main road for any movement. There wouldn’t be much, if any, traffic passing through late at night—leaving the vehicle undetected—but he took pause to be cautious as always.

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He was clad in dark kakis, black tactical waterproof Merrell boots, and a black North Face rain hoodie. And, of course, he always wore black tactical gloves for these operations. Every precaution was taken to avoid leaving prints, DNA of any kind, or anything else that could be detected. All the clothing would later be washed, then dropped in a recycle container miles away. Nothing was left to chance.

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Satisfied of his concealment, he grabbed his backpack and started out through the forest toward the Williamson property. He followed a deer trail found on his earlier visits to the area. The ground was firm and mostly dry, but still he walked to the side of the trail to minimize leaving any discernible tracks. Half way up was a concrete path that snaked through the forested estate community. He paused briefly at the path to watch and listen for any late-night lovers or adventurers, then quietly moved on.

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The occasional sliver of moonlight peeking down between the tree limbs was just enough to light his way. Early night dew droplets brushed his face as he pushed branches aside. The rustling of small forest floor residents scurrying away preceded him as he continued trekking up the trail. He froze momentarily when he heard someone calling. He quietly crouched down and listened. The sound came again. Idiot, he thought, as he realized it was the hoot of a Barred Owl nearby. Just ahead he could see a break in the tree line as he approached the Williamson property.

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The home was a large, stone, chateau style mansion containing nearly an acre of living space inside. It rose from the earth like a limestone mountain. Six towering chimney stacks soared above the slated roof of the two-story structure. An additional guest home and pool house sat amidst the lush, meticulously maintained grounds. The property itself was carved into the forest on all sides, providing him complete cover for the work ahead of him.

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Having done his usual preparation, he knew the odds were good the house would be empty until Eric Williamson arrived home. Every first Tuesday night of the month Eric Williamson attended a board meeting at Hidden Glen Country Club. He had been a member since he was a kid. His father was one of the founding members and the family had been active in the club ever since. The board asked Eric to join after his father’s passing over 20 years ago. He loved the club and felt it kept him close to his father. A creature of habit, Eric would always go straight home when the board meeting ended around nine.

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Eric Williamson’s wife of fifteen years, Katherine, was attending a charity event she was co-sponsoring that evening. She wouldn’t be home until later in the night. Their only child, Faith, was a full-time student at Carrington University living just off campus. The Williamson’s home was less than thirty minutes from CU, but Faith wanted to live near campus for the full collegiate experience. He knew none of the house staff stayed late Tuesday nights either, so no one else should be home.

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Where he emerged from the trees at the top of the trail there was a three-rail fence that bordered the twelve-acre estate. There, he waited and watched for Eric Williamson to arrive home for the evening. It was fifty-five out with a cooling breeze whispering along the tree line where he marked his time. The moonlight that led him up the trail was disappearing with an approaching storm front. Soon, it would be perfect for the work ahead of him—pitch dark.

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He only had to wait a short while before Eric Williamson drove through the front gate in an opaque grey Lamborghini Reventon. He watched from the shadows of the surrounding pines at the edge of the property as the car came up the curving drive. The car pulled into one of two double doors that led into a garage capable of hosting forty vehicles.

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From the edge of the property, he watched for the second-floor corner lights to go on. Those lights meant Williamson would be upstairs showering and changing for the evening before heading downstairs, as usual.

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Still completely hidden by clusters of pines and the rich darkness of night he climbed over the top rail and headed toward the house. He approached a corner of the structure where he knew the motion activated lights and cameras wouldn’t detect his presence—a blind spot created by the overgrowth of the surrounding pines. He stayed close to the building as he made his way to one of the French door entries at the back of the home. He pulled a thin flexible shim with a Hall effect sensor attached to it from his bag and slipped it between the doors. As he slid nearer the alarm contacts the lights indicated the polarity of the magnet in the contact. He pulled a magnet of the opposite polarity from his bag. With a tiny piece of non-residue silicon tape, he attached it to the door at the position of the alarm contact.

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With the magnet attached to keep the door circuit closed he pulled out a set of lock picks. He carefully manipulated the silicon tipped picks like a surgeon would a scalpel. Leaving scratches on the outside of the lock wouldn’t really matter. He would dispose of the pick set after he was done anyway. It was more a statement of professional pride to make the point of entry harder to detect. All lock picks left marks on the inside tumblers. That was unavoidable. But, detecting those required disassembling the lock. It pleased him to know it would slow the police investigation. After less than a minute he flipped the deadbolt open.

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The magnet still in place, he safely opened the door without the notification jingle that may have alerted Williamson. He entered and made his way to the kitchen where he waited in the shadows for Williamson. He chose to lay in waiting for his prey, rather than pursue. Something about waiting patiently was satisfying to him. Almost soothing.

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Drake Sable enjoyed his work—found it peaceful in a macabre sort of way. As he calmly waited in a darkened area of the huge kitchen, he stepped through his exit strategy again. Just as he did each time. Every assignment was strategized, planned, and walked through mentally to optimize success. It was all very mechanical to him. Very deliberate, very cold. There were no moral dilemmas, no regrets, no contrition. No questions or debate, just completion of the task assigned.

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