Intervention | NaNoWriMo 2018

Chapter 1 - The Mansion

"Mr. Graber, how are you this evening?" he said and raised two fingers to his head in a greeting. Lincoln handed the guard the business card. "Evening, Frank. Oh, you know, miserable as always. This heat and humidity are killing me."

Frank laughed and gestured towards the ocean. "Well, at least there's a bit of a breeze tonight, right?"

"A breeze? Are you kidding me? It's warm, Frank, the breeze is warm," Lincoln said, his eyebrows raised. "How's that supposed to make it any less miserable?"

"You got me there, my friend. It's good to see you. Have a good evening."

Lincoln nodded. "Likewise. I'll see you later, all right?"

"You bet, you bet," Frank said and reached inside the shack. The gate slid open with a muted squeak. Lincoln let out a slow exhale as he drove into the compound while the gate slid shut behind him. Getting in was the easy part.

A long driveway lined with palm trees stretched from the gate to the mansion. Several valet attendants milled about the podium by the front entrance, eager to swoop in on the next arrival. Lincoln didn't need their services. Instead, he drove around the side of the building and parked in his usual spot. As he shut down the engine and exited the car, he hesitated. His eyes danced across the facade of the building. It was his destination, but would it also be the end of the road? For the first time in months, he felt butterflies in his stomach, and a flash of doubt surfaced in the corners of his mind. Was he doing the right thing?

He shook off his misgivings and reached the side door of the building with a few quick steps. After a glance in both directions, he used his key card to unlock the door and step inside. He paused in the shadows of the entrance and listened.

Once a few minutes passed with no sign of life, Lincoln stepped out of the entryway and into the foyer where long, dimly lit corridors extended like tentacles to the left and right. A circular table with a flower arrangement filled the center of the room while a stone fireplace flanked by two closed doors covered the far wall. It had once been an invitation to enjoy the fire's crackling and the warmth of its flames while engaging in casual conversation. That night, it was a dark, cold cavity in the wall, as inviting as a hole in the ground.

Behind him, next to the entrance door, a set of stairs led to the second floor. He stepped over the chain with the red Do Not Enter sign and walked up the stairs step by step, avoiding the floorboards he knew would squeal the moment he put any weight on them.

The second-floor foyer was a carbon copy of the first floor, except the flowers were absent from the table. Instead, an empty bowl with plastic bananas and apples added a splash of color to an otherwise dreary space. He paused for a moment and drew a shaky breath at the sight of the painting above the fireplace.

A woman with dark brown hair stood in a wheat field, the tree line, and a small cabin in the distance, the blue sky with wisps of soft, white clouds in the background. She held a bouquet of wildflowers and greeted him with a gentle and inviting smile. Strands of her brown hair had escaped across her face as her green eyes seemed to stare right at him. His face flushed, and a chill ran down his spine at the thought of what she might think of him if she knew what he was about to do. It was nothing short of a betrayal. Yet, it had to be done. If everything went according to plan, she'd never know.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as he forced himself to look away from the painting and hurried over to the door to the left of the fireplace. With a gentle push, he opened the door just enough to squeeze through it and stepped into an unlit sitting room. A couch, several chairs, and tables were arranged around another lifeless fireplace. Large paintings of distant vistas covered the walls, each worth more than he could ever hope to make in a lifetime.

Another door took him out to the gallery overlooking the courtyard. It provided an excellent vantage point for anyone interested in taking in the events below without taking part.

He found a dark spot in the shadow of one of the corner pillars and gazed down at the crowd mingling below. A stage stood empty on the far side of the courtyard, complete with half a dozen chairs for a few select VIPs. A lectern with a microphone rose at the front of the stage.

Lincoln estimated that about a hundred people were mingling below him. The crowd increased by the minute as recent arrivals came through the main doors. Waiters moved in and out of the crowd with drinks that quickly vanished into the thirsty visitors' hands. The atmosphere was charged. The guests in attendance huddled in groups, gesturing, and laughing. Snippets of conversations floated up to Lincoln's perch while the aroma of the hors d'oeuvres carried around the room by the serving staff made his stomach growl. It reminded him he hadn't eaten all day.

Lincoln left the shadow of the pillar and backed away from the railing. He approached a recessed cabinet about ten yards to his left and moved a potted plant tucked between the side of the cabinet and the wall. As he reached into the small space behind it, his hand found the hard, plastic case tucked into the narrow space, right where he had left it. A gentle nudge dislodged it. He pulled it out and retreated to the shadows in the corner.

He kneeled and placed the black case on the floor. His fingers slid across the rough plastic surface. A flip of the fingers unlocked the metal clasps, revealing the gray, matte metal of a sniper rifle and a handgun inside the case.

Removing the rifle from the foam-filled inside, he found that the bullets he had loaded days before were untouched. With a sigh of relief, he put the rifle on the floor and tucked the gun in his waistband after double-checking it also loaded. He then closed the case and slid it up against the wall. Kneeling in the shadows, he looked through the railing and nodded to himself, satisfied that he had a clear line of sight to the podium.

He picked up the rifle, unfolded the bipod at the end of the barrel, and then the rifle's stock. Content that the weapon was ready, he lay down on the floor next to the railing, made a slight adjustment to the scope, and verified the podium was in his crosshairs.

With all preparations completed, he sat down on the floor next to the rifle while he monitored the crowd through the railing. A glance at his watch told him it would be another twenty minutes before the gathering became serious about settling down, and any speeches would begin. All he could do now was wait.

As the minutes ticked by, the stream of visitors turned into a trickle, and the courtyard mellowed as the conversations died down. One by one, the attendees found their seats as anticipation for the main event grew.

Lincoln returned to a prone position on the floor and situated the rifle against his shoulder, his eye against the long-range scope. With his finger next to the trigger, he drew a few deep breaths and relaxed, holding his breath for a few seconds as he peered down the scope at the empty podium. He was ready, yet he felt a flutter in his stomach.

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers as a man in his early fifties appeared on the stage. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a white shirt, the dark shadow of stubble visible on his chin. A wide-brimmed hat rested on his head, dark sunglasses on the edge of his nose. He walked up to the podium; he waved to those in attendance and flashed a smile at the people he recognized. Upon reaching the lectern, he laughed and pointed towards someone in the crowd with a nod, then adjusted the microphone and began with a joke.

Lincoln took a deep breath, tweaked the rifle's position on his shoulder, and filled the scope with his target's head. He bent his finger around the trigger, slowed his breathing, and was just about to squeeze when he heard the door open and close. Steps approached the railing by the door and then stopped.

"Hello?" a female voice called out softly. A chill ran down Lincoln's spine. It couldn't be. He shuddered as he rose to his knees, careful to stay below the top of the railing as he pushed the rifle closer to the railing to make it as invisible as possible for anyone that might walk around the corner.

"Lincoln?" she said as he stood up and saw the woman from the painting in the foyer. "What's going on? What are you doing up here?"