Chapter 9 - The Lake Forest Compound
At 11:30 PM, a heavy rainstorm rolled over the northern suburbs of Chicago, lashing the pine trees surrounding the multi-million-dollar private estates of Lake Forest.
Colonel Kovaks' compound was built like a modern fortress.
Surrounded by a ten-foot wrought-iron fence equipped with motion sensors, thermal cameras, and three pairs of roving private security guards, the stone mansion sat two hundred yards back from the main iron gate.
Inside the mansion’s primary study, Colonel Kovaks sat behind a massive mahogany desk, sipping a glass of scotch.
He was a man in his late fifties, with silvering hair, a sharp jawline, and a crisp, expensive suit. On the desk in front of him lay a tactical tablet displaying live security feeds from every camera along the perimeter.
Standing near the window were six heavily armed guards wearing tactical vests, holding submachine guns equipped with optical sights.
"Perimeter check," Kovaks ordered into his desk microphone.
"East gate clear, Colonel," a guard replied over the speaker. "West ridge clear. No motion detected on the sensors."
Kovaks took a slow sip of his scotch. "Keep the thermal sweeps running every ninety seconds. She's coming on foot."
"Colonel," his security chief said, stepping forward. "Is one woman really worth locking down the entire estate? She's five-foot-seven and has been out of active service for five years."
Kovaks looked up at his chief, his eyes dead serious. "You didn't see her in Helmand, Captain. She took down a five-man insurgent squad in a pitch-black cave using nothing but a ten-inch trench knife and her elbows. She doesn't need weapons. She is a weapon."
Suddenly, the security tablet on Kovaks' desk let out a sharp, rhythmic warning ping.
The live camera feeds for the north garden went black one by one.
Camera 04: SIGNAL LOST. Camera 05: SIGNAL LOST. Camera 06: SIGNAL LOST.
"Breach!" the security chief roared, raising his weapon. "North garden! All units move to intercept!"
Outside, through the heavy rain, the sound of muffled impacts and groans echoed across the terrace.
Maya Vance didn't breach the front gate.
She had bypassed the wrought-iron fence forty minutes earlier by climbing the high branches of an oak tree overhanging the west wall, dropping silently onto the stone roof of the guest house.
She moved through the rain like a phantom, wearing black tactical trousers, a dark fitted long-sleeve shirt, her hands wrapped tightly in black cloth.
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As three guards rushed toward the north garden, Maya dropped from the balcony above the back patio, landing behind the rearguard operator.
Her arm whipped around his neck in a silent choke-sleeper hold, cutting off the blood flow to his brain in four seconds. Before he hit the flagstones, she unholstered his sidearm, dropped the magazine into the wet grass, and slipped into the mansion through the open terrace doors.
