Chapter 2 - The Woman at the Gate
Prescott Hale did not repeat himself, but he stood a fraction of an inch taller than usual, his shoulders squared against the mahogany-paneled walls of Lawson’s office. Prescott had been Lawson’s shadow for fifteen years, a man who had cleaned up messes ranging from corrupt aldermen to rival syndicate captains disposed of in Lake Michigan. If Prescott looked uneasy, it meant the variable was entirely outside his control.
“She’s been out there for four hours, Lawson,” Prescott said, his voice dropping an octave as he checked his gold pocket watch. “Snow’s coming down harder now. Visibility at the perimeter is zero. The guards want to turn the dogs out just to clear the apron, but she hasn’t moved an inch from the pedestrian wicket.”
Lawson didn’t look up from his desk. The files before him were blank sheets of paper he had been staring at for twenty minutes. His mind felt like a rusted engine trying to turn over in sub-zero weather. “Tell them to give her five hundred dollars and put her in a cab back to the loop. If she won't take the cash, put her in the back of a Lincoln and drop her off at the nearest precinct.”
“We tried,” Prescott said, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine bewilderment crossed his hardened features. “Milo offered her two grand in cash from his own wallet. She didn’t even look at the envelope. Said she didn’t come for charity, and she didn’t come for a job interview through the regular channels. She asked for you by name, Lawson.”
That stopped the turning engine.
Lawson raised his head slowly. His dark eyes, cold and bloodshot from lack of sleep, fixed on his second-in-command. “By name? Few people outside this estate or a federal grand jury know my name in connection with this address. Who sent her? Crosby?”
“Crosby wouldn’t send a woman in a soaked wool coat holding a faded canvas duffel bag,” Prescott replied dryly. “She doesn't look like an assassin, boss. She looks like she hasn't slept in three days, and she smells like cheap station coffee and wet pine needles. But when Milo tried to nudge her back toward the gatehouse, she didn't flinch. She just looked past him at the upper windows—right at the east wing—and told him that if he touched her arm again, he’d regret it before midnight.”
Lawson stared at him. A chill, entirely separate from the winter drafts whistling through the sprawling Chicago mansion, ran down his spine.
“Did she say what she wants?”
“She said she’s here to stop the monitors from flatlining,” Prescott said quietly.
The office went dead. The grandfather clock in the corner seemed to hold its breath.
For a man who ruled half the docks, two shipping lines, and an invisible empire of financial leverage across the Midwest, those words carried a weight heavier than lead. Nobody knew about the ten-day prognosis except Dr. Yates, Lawson, and Odessa the housekeeper. Yates wouldn't talk—he liked living too much, and his family lived in a guarded enclave in Winnetka funded entirely by Lawson’s private accounts. Odessa was a mute wall of loyalty.
So how did a woman standing in the snow at the edge of the Mercer estate know that the twins were running out of time?
Lawson stood up so fast his leather chair rolled backward and hit the bookcase with a dull thud. His coat hung over the back of the settee; he snatched it up without sliding his arms into the sleeves, shrugging it over his broad shoulders as he strode toward the door.
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“Where are you going, boss?” Prescott asked, stepping aside.
“To look at our visitor,” Lawson said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that made even hardened killers step out of his path. “And if she’s a scout for Crosby, I’m going to bury her in the rose garden myself.”
