Eunice loosened the chin strap on her full-face helmet and adjusted her rucksack. Straddling her softly purring Harley-Davidson Softail Deluxe, she studied the grounds beyond the gates of the Richard Lyle Mills estate. She had already scouted the estate’s perimeter searching for entry soft points, but her instincts kept directing her back to the front entrance. The drive beyond the cast iron gates snaked its way through an assemblage of naked maple, oak, chestnut trees and a series of cameras that ...