Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ARMONK, NEW YORK
The total worth of multimillionaire Theodore Campbell’s private art collection was not something he publicized. Personal friends and trusted business associates were the only ones privy to the elaborate art gallery he’d built as an adjunct wing to his twenty-acre estate, just thirty-five miles north of Manhattan.
His collection ranged from paintings dating back to the French Renaissance to those created by the world’s greatest Impressionists, to masterpieces of the Modern age. His tastes were eclectic, and his paintings were arranged according to style, each grouping tucked in alcoves all their own. His security system was state-of-the-art, and it would take a veritable genius to crack it.
The armed team approaching the estate wasn’t foolish enough to try.
They’d chosen the time for their hit after the family’s routine had been scrutinized for weeks. From there, it was an easy decision to make.
It was a drizzly October dawn. Saturday morning at 6:45, before the sun and the joggers were up. Not that it mattered. The Campbell estate was set so far back from the road that the manor itself was virtually invisible.
Adhering to their Saturday morning custom, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell were still asleep, as were most of the servants, who were taking advantage of the extra few hours of rest that came with not disturbing the master and mistress. The only ones up and about were the butler, the cook, and the nanny, who was supervising the Campbells’ six-year-old daughter and four-year-old son as they watched early morning cartoons in the den.
The four Black Eagles approached quietly. Three hid in the bushes on either side of the entranceway, ski masks pulled over their heads and faces, weapons loaded and ready.
The leader of the team marched up to the front door. His police uniform was authentic.
He didn’t ring the bell. That would awaken the household. He simply waited until the butler was passing through the foyer. Then, he knocked—two brief, authoritative raps.
Startled, the butler came to a halt, then turned and walked over to the door. “Yes?” he asked through the intercom.
“Police,” the leader replied, keeping his tone low and his words few to hide his accented English. “Silent alarm—rear wing.” With that, he stood tall, directly in front of the video monitor so the butler could see his uniform.
The desired effect was achieved the moment he uttered the phrase “rear wing.” The butler knew what that meant—the master’s revered art collection was in danger.
Without another word, he yanked open the door. “What alarm? The security company—”
The rest of his sentence was silenced by the spray of bullets that blew through his chest.
On cue, the other three Black Eagles appeared, rushing inside as their leader yanked on his ski mask and stormed in behind them. By the time the cook hurried out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was, the assailants were in the den. The cook’s hands flew to her face, and she emitted a muffled shriek as she saw the butler’s crumpled body lying in the foyer, blood oozing from his chest. Inside the den, the nanny cried out in pain, as one of the gunmen dragged her away from her charges and threw her roughly onto the floor.
Two of the gunmen grabbed the two whimpering children, holding each of them in a viselike grip and pointing the MP5Ks at their heads.
“Nobody do anything stupid,” the leader instructed the terrified nanny and cook as he raised his submachine gun, shifting its aim from one woman to the other. “Or my friends blow off kids’ heads. And I use this”—he gave a slight jerk of his gun—“so you both end up like butler.”
An utterly panicked silence filled the air, punctuated by the women’s rapid breathing and the frightened weeping of the children.
A commotion erupted upstairs, and a minute later Theodore and Leona Campbell flew into the room, their bathrobes billowing out around them.
“What the…Oh dear God.” Theodore turned
sheet white when he saw his children being held at gunpoint. Leona let out an agonized scream and flew forward, instinctively trying to reach her beloved children and get them out of danger.
“Stop,” the armed leader commanded, turning his subgun on Leona. “One more step and I kill kids.”
Theodore caught his wife and pulled her back. “Don’t hurt them,” he implored. “Take whatever you want. Just don’t hurt our children.”
“Is up to you. Do as we say, no one gets hurt. Give us trouble, and your wife has good time watching us shoot kids. No send alarm. No call cops. Otherwise, kids will be dead before first cop car gets to house. You understand?”
“Yes,” Theodore agreed.
“Good. Let’s go.” He nudged Theodore with his MP5K, forcing him into the hall. One of the other Black Eagles pushed the nanny and cook into chairs and tied them up back-to-back. Leona he sat directly in front of her children, still being held at gunpoint, and bound her arms behind her and her ankles together.
“Now what?” she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“You wait.”