Chapter 4 - War at the Gates
The red emergency strobe lights mounted along the perimeter ceilings began to pulse, casting an eerie, arterial glow across the white marble floors of the Mercer estate.
Lawson’s entire demeanor shifted in less than a second. The anxious, desperate father vanished beneath the cold, calculating surface of the city’s most ruthless crime lord. The beast had reawakened.
“How many?” Lawson demanded, his voice dropping into its deadliest, most authoritative register as he drew his Sig Sauer from his shoulder holster with practiced, fluid ease.
“At least a dozen,” Prescott panted, reloading a submachine gun clip. “Heavy assault gear. They’re using the blizzard for cover. They breached the south vehicle checkpoint and they’re moving fast toward the main foyer.”
Lawson turned to Elena, who was calmly packing her vials back into her canvas duffel bag.
“Lock this suite from the inside,” Lawson ordered, his eyes dark and hard. “If anyone other than me or Prescott knocks on this door, do not open it. If they breach the wing, use the panic room behind the secondary bookshelf.”
Elena looked up from her bag, her amber eyes unflinching. “I’m not a hostage hiding in a closet, Mr. Mercer. I have hands. And I know how to use a tourniquet and a scalpel if your men need patching up.”
Lawson stared at her for a fraction of a second, then gave a sharp nod. “Stay behind me. Prescott, cover the east corridor.”
They moved out into the grand hallway of the mansion.
The Mercer estate was built like a medieval fortress, but Crosby Vane was not a man who cared about architecture. He was an old-school rival who had waited years for Lawson to show a moment of weakness. Tonight, with rumors swirling that the Mercer twins were dead and the crime boss was paralyzed by grief, Crosby had decided to strike the crown jewel.
Glass shattered in the foyer below. The heavy oak front doors splintered inward under the concussive force of a breaching charge.
“Clear!” a harsh voice echoed up the grand staircase.
Boots stomped across the marble entry hall. Automatic gunfire suddenly ripped through the air, chewing up expensive oil paintings and shattering crystal chandeliers into a million sparkling diamonds of glass.
Lawson didn't flinch. He crouched behind the carved mahogany banister of the second-floor landing, his breathing steady, his sights aligned on the bottom of the staircase.
“Prescott, suppressive fire on the left flank,” Lawson commanded quietly.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Prescott’s submachine gun barked from the hallway corner, sending a wall of lead tearing down the stairs, forcing Crosby’s advance guard to scramble behind marble pillars for cover.
“Boss!” one of Crosby’s mercenaries shouted from below, his voice echoing up the stairwell. “Crosby says the king is dead! Give us the estate codes and we make it quick!”
Lawson stepped out from behind the banister, exposing himself to the line of fire with terrifying disregard for his own safety. He raised his Sig Sauer and fired three deliberate, calculated shots.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three distinct cries echoed from the foyer as two of Crosby’s advance men dropped their weapons and tumbled backward onto the marble floor.
“Tell Crosby,” Lawson shouted down the stairwell, his voice ringing with absolute chilling authority, “that the king is very much awake—and he’s coming to collect.”
Before the remaining mercenaries could regroup, a heavy thud echoed from the rear service entrance behind the kitchen.
“Boss!” Prescott shouted over the gunfire. “They’re coming through the sub-level mudroom! The elevators are compromised!”
Lawson’s eyes snapped toward the direction of the medical wing.
The children.
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Crosby hadn't just come for a takeover. He had come to make sure there was nothing left of the Mercer bloodline to inherit the empire.
“Elena!” Lawson yelled, turning back toward the east wing.
