Chapter 5 - The Trap at Ironwood
Before the convoy could roll out of the estate gates, a sleek black Mercedes pulled up the drive, blocking the exit.
Nolan Mercer stepped out of the vehicle, holding an expensive leather briefcase, looking every bit the dutiful younger brother and corporate executive. He walked up to the Suburban and tapped on the tinted window.
Gideon lowered the glass just an inch, enough to see his brother’s face.
“Gideon, thank God you’re still here,” Nolan said, panting slightly as if he had rushed over. “I just heard the most absurd rumor from the downtown office. Some nonsense about a baby being left at the gate, and the board is asking questions about financial audits from two years ago. We need to clear this up before the quarterly meeting—”
“Nolan,” Gideon interrupted, his voice devoid of emotion.
“What?” Nolan blinked, thrown off by his brother’s lack of fury.
“Did you know San Cristobal sanatorium has a private maternity ward?”
Nolan’s breath caught. The easy, corporate smile melted off his face instantly, replaced by a look of stark, naked terror. He stumbled back half a step, his hand dropping toward his waist where a concealed Sig Sauer rested beneath his jacket.
“I don’t... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nolan stammered.
“You lied to me,” Gideon said, pushing the car door open and stepping out into the cold drizzle. He towered over Nolan, his massive frame blocking out the gray afternoon light. “You told me she died on the bridge. You helped put her in a cage. And then you tried to murder a newborn baby to cover your tracks.”
Nolan realized the game was up. His face twisted into a snarl of bitter resentment and long-simmering hatred.
“And what if I did?!” Nolan shouted, abandoning all pretense. “You were going soft, Gideon! You fell in love with a woman from a rival family and started talking about walking away from the syndicate! You were going to hand the whole empire over to her! I had to protect what our father built! I had to secure our future!”
“Our future?” Gideon whispered.
Suddenly, four of Nolan’s personal bodyguards stepped out from behind the Mercedes, weapons drawn, aiming straight at Gideon’s chest.
“Drop your weapons, Gideon!” Nolan screamed, his voice cracking with unhinged adrenaline. “I didn't come here to ask permission! I came here to finish what I started on the bridge! Kill him and take the child!”
Before Nolan’s men could even squeeze their triggers, the woods surrounding the driveway erupted.
Twelve of Gideon’s elite enforcers—men who had been positioned in the tree line anticipating this exact move—dropped from the branches and rose from the perimeter bushes, their assault rifles locked and loaded.
“Drop your weapons or you die where you stand,” Pierce’s voice boomed across the drive.
Nolan’s guards looked at each other, looked at Gideon’s cold, dead eyes, and immediately let their weapons clatter to the concrete.
Nolan stood alone, shaking, his gun still half-drawn.
Gideon walked forward, ignored the pistol in Nolan’s hand, and delivered a single, devastating punch to his brother’s jaw. Nolan flew backward, crashing hard onto the wet pavement, blood spraying from his split lip.
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Gideon stood over him, pressing the heel of his boot onto Nolan’s chest.
“You’re going to help me pack a car, Nolan,” Gideon said softly. “Because we’re going to Wisconsin. And you’re going to unlock every single door in San Cristobal with your own hands.”
