Chapter 21 #2
The truck slows as we approach the perimeter checkpoint. My body tenses in anticipation, but I force myself to relax. Tension will make holding a position harder during inspection and increase the likelihood of small movements giving me away. Relaxed muscles, controlled breathing. I go still.
The driver exchanges words with security, their conversation a muffled rumble above me. The truck rolls forward a few feet and stops again. Standard procedure. ID check first, followed by vehicle inspection.
Boot steps circle the truck. Flashlights sweep the wheel wells, the bumpers, the external compartments. I tuck in tight to the frame, becoming one with the machinery. The boots stop beside my position. Light flashes in my peripheral vision as a guard crouches to check under the truck.
I hold my breath. The flashlight beam passes inches from my face, but I know the guard will only see pipes, metal, and mechanical components. The human eye skips what it doesn’t expect to find.
“Clear,” the guard calls out.
No thermal scan today. They randomize their use to prevent predictable patterns. Today, luck is on my side.
The truck moves forward again, passing through the gate and onto Rockford property. I exhale through my nose, allowing myself three seconds of relief before refocusing. This is the easy part.
We wind up the long driveway, the familiar route feeling strange from this inverted perspective. When the truck stops at the kitchen loading bay, the engine cuts off, and a brief silence follows before the driver’s door opens and closes.
Voices echo in the delivery bay as staff approach to begin unloading. I remain motionless, listening to the pattern of movement above. Crates slide across the truck bed. Footsteps move back and forth between the truck and the kitchen entrance. Clipboard signatures and inventory confirmations.
When the last heavy crate slides across the truck bed, creating the longest gap in their routine, I release the straps.
My muscles scream in protest as I shift position for the first time in over forty minutes. Blood rushes back into compressed tissue, sending pins and needles through my limbs.
No time to recover.
I unzip the protective jumpsuit, peel it from my sweat-soaked uniform, and stuff it behind a loose panel beneath the truck where it won’t be found. Then I slide between the rear wheel and a stack of empty crates, dropping to the concrete in a crouch that places the truck between the staff and me.
I’m moving as soon as my feet touch the ground, gliding into the shadow cast by the loading area. Three steps take me to the staff entrance door, left propped open during deliveries. Standard procedure, despite security protocols.
I slip into the building with the rest of the delivery staff, one more uniform in the rush.
The kitchen hits me with a wall of familiar sensations the moment I step through the service entrance.
Steam rises from industrial pots. Metal utensils clatter on stainless steel counters.
Orders are called across the room as staff pivot around each other in a choreographed dance they’ve performed thousands of times.
I fall into their rhythm without hesitation, shoulders hunched, gaze directed downward, moving with purpose toward the door that opens into the manor as if carrying out some assigned task.
“You there,” a sous chef calls out, not looking up from the vegetables he’s chopping. “Take these up to the dining room.”
I change direction without missing a beat, accepting the tray of rolls with a murmured, “Yes, sir.”
The silver tray in my hands feels surreal. How many times had I snuck into this kitchen as a teenager, stealing food and earning my mother’s playful swats?
Then I spot her standing at the center of the controlled chaos, clipboard in hand, directing the flow of activity with the quiet authority she’s always commanded in this domain.
Her hair is pulled back in the same neat bun she’s worn for as long as I can remember, though I notice more gray strands than before.
The sight of her stops my breath for one dangerous second.
“Those rolls won’t deliver themselves,” someone mutters behind me, breaking my momentary freeze.
I force my feet to move, shifting my path to carry me past where she stands. Close enough to catch her scent of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread, but not so close as to draw attention.
“The delivery is short two crates of produce,” she tells a kitchen assistant. “Call the supplier and tell them we expect the rest delivered by noon.”
She appears thinner than when I left, with shadows under her eyes. Has she been sleeping? Is she worried? Is it my fault?
My arms twitch with the urge to set down the tray and go to her. To say I’m here, I’m safe, I’m sorry for leaving without a proper goodbye.
“Mrs. Bustly,” a staff member calls from the pantry, “the inventory sheets need your signature.”
She turns away from me, moving toward the pantry without ever turning in my direction, and the moment shatters, training flooding back like ice water. I can’t risk this. Can’t risk her recognizing me and drawing attention to my return.
Not when I’m this close to reaching Aaiden.
I keep moving, head down, just another anonymous staff member carrying out their duties. The physical pain of walking away from her without a word hurts, but I bury it under layers of focus and discipline.
I take the narrow service hallway out to the hall that leads to the dining room. The tray of rolls provides the perfect prop, a reason to be moving through the manor toward the more private areas.
Security cameras track my progress from recessed corners, their positions altered since I left.
Before, there was a three-second blind spot at the intersection of the front hall and the east wing.
Now, a new camera eliminates that gap. Before, the service stairwell had monitoring only at the entrance and exit. Now there’s coverage on every landing.
I note each change, a professional assessment running parallel to the mission.
Aaiden has kept Damien and Sebastian busy.
The manor’s security, always formidable, has been reinforced extensively.
No more relying on the staff’s familiar faces and long-established trust. Everything is being monitored now.
A guard stands at the base of the entryway stairs, a new addition since my departure. Before, security was more discreet, positioned at external access points rather than internal transitions. The change speaks volumes about Aaiden’s state of mind.
I approach the dining room, deposit the rolls on the sideboard next to the rest of the food options, and return to the front hall, timing my movements to coincide with a staff change at the guard position.
The relief guard arrives on schedule, and the brief handover opens the small window I need.
Six seconds while their attention focuses on each other rather than the hallway.
I slip past during their exchange, moving with quiet confidence down the service corridor that runs parallel to the front hall of the private wing. This path, designed to allow staff to move unseen by the family and guests, is narrower, dimmer, and perfect for my needs.
There are more cameras here, too, their positions shifted to eliminate the blind spots I used to exploit, and motion sensors at irregular intervals. Even the flooring has been replaced with material that’s harder to cross without making a sound.
I adjust without conscious thought, moving between sensor ranges, timing my passage beneath cameras during their sweep cycles. The uniform and transformed appearance disguise me from whoever is watching the feed from taking a closer look.
The private wing grows quieter as I advance, the sounds of the working manor fading behind me. Here, the carpet absorbs footsteps, and the walls dampen voices. Everything is designed for the comfort and privacy of the Rockford family.
My heartbeat quickens as I reach the final turn before Aaiden’s private suite.
The endgame begins now.