Chapter 6 - THE BILTMORE GATES
-6-
The armored suburban carved through the blinding Charlotte blizzard like an industrial snowplow, eating up the miles of slick highway separating our suburban home from the historic Biltmore estate on the outskirts of the city. Inside the cabin, the heater blasted at maximum capacity, but the chill in my bones had nothing to do with the winter weather. It was the steady, horrifying realization that my life as an ordinary logistics manager was completely, irrevocably dead.
I sat in the passenger seat, staring down at the encrypted solid-state drive sitting in the cupholder between us like a dormant grenade.
"How do we get past security?" I asked, breaking the long silence as the dark silhouette of the estate’s massive stone gatehouse loomed out of the swirling snow ahead. "Julian rented out the entire grand ballroom for the Chamber of Commerce winter banquet. There are private state troopers, private security contractors, and a guest list verified by thumbprint scanners."
Nora didn't slow down. If anything, she pressed her foot down harder on the accelerator, the heavy engine roaring as the vehicle cut through the unplowed guest lane.
"We don't go through the guest gate," Nora said calmly, her eyes locked on the road. "We go in through the service delivery dock behind the main kitchens. Every high-end corporate gala relies on outside catering companies, linen deliveries, and fresh ice shipments until 7:00 PM. We are running twenty minutes late for the linen truck."
As if on cue, a massive white semi-truck bearing the logo of a commercial laundry service trundled up to the secondary security barrier. The guard in the heated booth stepped out, clipboard in hand, shivering against the wind to check the driver's manifest.
Nora didn't stop the suburban. She pulled in directly behind the semi-truck, tailgating the massive vehicle so closely its rear bumper was inches from our grille.
"Hold on," Nora warned.
Before the guard could turn around from the semi-truck’s window, Nora slammed her foot on the gas. The armored suburban surged forward, ramming the rear bumper of the delivery truck with a dull, heavy thud that shoved the massive vehicle forward, breaking the electronic security arm off its reinforced pivot with a sharp snap of plastic and aluminum.
"What are you doing?!" I yelled, grabbing the dashboard as we shot past the open gatehouse and onto the winding, tree-lined driveway of the estate.
"Breaching the perimeter," Nora replied smoothly, spinning the steering wheel to slide the heavy vehicle into the thicket of rhododendron bushes just off the main road, safely out of sight of the entrance cameras. "Walking through the front door gets us arrested. Crashing the party gets us inside."
She killed the engine and popped the glove compartment, pulling out a pair of black tactical earpieces and handing one to me.
"Put this in. We stay on a closed radio frequency," she instructed, sliding her own earpiece into place before reaching into the back seat to pull out a sleek, black wireless relay transmitter—the device required to hack into the hotel’s master media server. "The main ballroom is on the second floor of the banquet wing. The master AV control room is directly above it, accessed via the old maintenance service stairs behind the pastry kitchen."
I took the earpiece, my fingers clumsy as I pushed it into my ear. "And Julian? What happens when he sees us?"
"When Julian sees us," Nora said, her slate-gray eyes flashing with a cold, unforgiving light, "he’ll be too busy answering questions from the federal task force I dispatched thirty minutes ago to worry about us."
We slipped out of the suburban into the freezing blizzard. The wind whipped our clothes around us, howling through the ancient oaks of the Biltmore grounds like a chorus of banshees. Following Nora’s lead, I kept my head down, pulling the hood of my winter coat over my face as we jogged toward the brightly lit loading bays of the massive banquet wing.
The service doors were propped open with a rubber wedge to allow caterers to haul in crates of champagne and silver platters. Inside, the air was a chaotic swirl of heat, the smell of roasted prime rib, and the frantic shouting of frantic chefs rushing to prep for the VIP arrivals.
Nobody paid attention to us. To the kitchen staff, we were just part of the endless stream of temporary help brought in to manage a five-hundred-person gala.
Nora led the way with absolute, terrifying confidence, weaving past towering racks of desserts and steaming soup kettles until she reached a narrow, unmarked metal door tucked behind a bank of industrial refrigerators.
She pulled a specialized electronic key fob from her pocket, tapped it against the smart-lock sensor, and the door clicked open.
Darkness. A steep, narrow concrete stairwell spiraled upward into the belly of the historic building.
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"Up," Nora whispered, drawing her Glock once more. "The AV room is at the top of the landing. Once we plug the relay into the main master switcher, Clara’s final message will broadcast across every television, projector screen, and PA speaker in the ballroom."
I followed her up the stairs, each step bringing me closer to the moment of reckoning. For over a year, I had mourned a ghost. Tonight, that ghost was going to walk into the brightest room in Charlotte and tear down the man who murdered her.
