Page 94 of Rescuing Aria
Footsteps echo behind me—heavy, multiple sets. I duck behind a stack of supply crates as two guards rush past, weapons drawn, heading toward the detention level.
The maintenance room across the hall is unlocked. Inside, I find tool racks, supply shelves, and—jackpot—a buildingsystems diagram on the wall showing electrical, plumbing, and communications infrastructure.
The main house has a dedicated office on the first floor, east wing. If Wolfe runs his operation from here, that’s where I’ll find information.
I grab tools that might prove useful—screwdriver, wire cutters, electrical tape—and stuff them in my pockets. The radio chatter from the fallen guard’s unit crackles with coordinated search patterns. They’re sweeping the compound systematically, working outward from the detention level.
The service corridor continues past the maintenance area, eventually connecting to the main house through a pantry adjacent to the kitchen. According to the diagram, it’s the least monitored approach.
Three minutes of careful movement brings me to the pantry door. Voices filter through—kitchen staff preparing dinner. The smell of roasting meat and expensive wine wafts under the door. My stomach tightens. The “family reunion” must be happening soon.
I wait until the voices move away, then slip through into a gleaming industrial kitchen. Steam rises from pots on professional-grade burners. A rack of knives gleams on the wall. I take one—six-inch blade, perfectly balanced. It disappears into my waistband.
The kitchen opens onto a service hallway that connects to the main house. I follow it, encountering no one. The security alerts must be contained to avoid alarming whoever’s in the main house.
The hall opens into a grand foyer—marble floors, crystal chandelier, sweeping staircase. Opulent. Old money mixed with new. I press against the wall, listening. Voices drift from somewhere deeper in the house—muffled, indistinct, but one is definitely female.
Aria.
Something loosens in my chest. She’s alive. The relief is physical, a wave that nearly throws my focus.
Steady. Focus. Plan.
Don’t rush in. Stop and think. Process.
It’s saved my ass more times than I can count. I can’t rush in blind. I need backup, which means I need to communicate with my team. From the sounds in the dining room, Aria’s not under immediate threat. This gives me time.
The office should be down the east corridor according to the building diagram. I move silently across the foyer, staying low, using columns and furniture for cover. My bare feet make no sound on the cold marble.
The east corridor is lined with closed doors. The third one—slightly ajar—shows a slice of what looks like an office. No voices or movement inside.
I slip in, close the door silently behind me. The room is everything you’d expect from a man like Wolfe—leather-bound books, antique desk, oil paintings. But it’s the modern equipment that catches my attention—a computer, an encrypted phone system, and a document safe in the corner.
The computer is password-protected. The safe is biometric. But there’s a file cabinet against the wall, old-fashioned with a simple lock. The kind of place someone might keep less sensitive but still important documents.
I should keep moving, rescue Aria, but Wolfe said he wanted her to hear “the truth” about Marcus. If there’s evidence of what that might be… I’ll give that time to marinate.
The lock picks easily with the screwdriver from maintenance. Inside, folders are meticulously organized by name and date. One label jumps out: “Holbrook, Marcus - 1997-Present.”
I pull it, flip it open. My blood turns to ice.
Police reports. Hospital records. Surveillance photos.
Marcus standing over a woman’s body, blood staining his hands. Crime scene photos of a luxury apartment, furniture overturned, signs of struggle. Autopsy report: cause of death, blunt force trauma.
Newspaper clippings. “Business Mogul’s Wife Dies in Tragic Accident.” “Marcus Holbrook Cleared of All Charges.” “Influential Family Mourns Loss of Rebecca Holbrook.”
Rebecca. Aria’s mother.
My hands don’t shake. Training overrides the shock. I keep turning pages. Bank statements showing massive payments to police officers, medical examiners, witnesses. Evidence of a cover-up so thorough it’s breathtaking—heartbreaking.
More folders. More evidence. A pattern spanning decades—women silenced, accidents staged, investigations derailed. Marcus isn’t just corrupt; he’s a monster.
And Wolfe has been documenting it all. For years. Building a case piece by piece.
The question pulses behind my eyes: Why? What’s his endgame?
A thicker folder catches my eye. “Project Eclipse - 1995.” Inside, papers so old the edges have yellowed. Shipping manifests to countries with lax regulations. Bank statements showing millions flowing through shell corporations. Photographs of Marcus at private airfields, shaking hands with men whose faces are familiar from international watchlists.
