Chapter 6 - The Wolf Outside
While the east wing became a war zone of cold compresses, racing monitors, and frantic whispered instructions, the perimeter alarms of the Mercer estate began to wail.
Down in the security hub in the basement, red lights flashed in a frantic rhythm across the massive wall of surveillance monitors.
“Boss!” Milo’s voice crackled over the secure intercom on Lawson’s desk. “We’ve got movement on the southern ridge. Six men, all black tactical gear, thermal-masked. They’re cutting the fence near the old greenhouse!”
Lawson stood frozen for a fraction of a second, torn between the glowing monitor showing Jonah’s erratic heartbeat and the sudden, violent reality of his criminal empire crashing through his front door.
Crosby Vane had chosen his moment with surgical precision. He knew Lawson was distracted. He knew the house was emotionally vulnerable. He thought the king was dying in his own nursery.
“Hold the inner perimeter,” Lawson ordered, his voice dropping an octave into pure, lethal ice. “Do not let them past the stone courtyard. If any of them set foot on the veranda, use live ammunition.”
He turned to Aveline, who was standing in the doorway of the study, holding a basin of steaming water and a bundle of cloth. She had heard every word.
“Go,” she said, her amber eyes steady. “Take care of your war. I’ll keep them breathing until you get back.”
Lawson didn't hesitate. He pulled the SIG Sauer from his holster, racked the slide with a sharp, metallic clack that echoed down the hallway, and disappeared into the shadows of the west wing staircase.
Outside in the freezing darkness, the snow was stained red by the flashing security beacons.
Crosby’s men thought they were walking into a retirement home. They thought Lawson Mercer had gone soft because of two sick children.
They were wrong.
Lawson stepped out onto the second-floor balcony above the southern courtyard, the freezing wind whipping his black shirt around his broad shoulders. Below him, two masked figures were slipping past the shattered glass of the greenhouse.
He didn't shout a warning. He raised the pistol, tracked the lead figure through the falling snow, and squeezed the trigger twice.
The sharp cracks of gunfire shattered the silence of the Chicago night.
One of Crosby’s scouts dropped instantly, his body slumping sideways into the snowbanks. The second man whirled around, firing wildly into the dark, but before he could squeeze off a second round, Prescott and three armed guards swarmed out from the shadows of the pillars, tackling him into the frozen mud.
“Clear!” Prescott roared over the wind.
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Lawson lowered the smoking barrel of his gun, his chest heaving with cold air. But even as the adrenaline surged through his veins, his mind wasn't on Crosby Vane or the bleeding men in the snow.
His mind was back in the east wing, with the woman who held his children's lives in her hands.
