Chapter 4 - THE NIGHT OF THE WOLVES
The peace of the medical suite was instantly shattered.
A high-pitched, muted alarm began to pulse throughout the mansion—not a loud siren that would startle the children, but a low, red strobe light that flickered in the high corners of the hallway outside.
Lawson pulled his hand back from Blythe's face, his eyes transforming instantly from a grieving father’s into those of a predatory beast. He reached behind his back, pulling a heavy, black SIG Sauer 9mm pistol from his hidden holster with a crisp, metallic clack-clack as he racked the slide.
"Prescott," Lawson spoke into his collar mic, his voice icy, calm, and terrifyingly precise. "Initiate Lockout Protocol Bravo. Seal the east wing steel bulkheads. Do not let anyone reach the second floor."
"Copy that, boss! We're engaging them on the front lawn now!"
Distantly, through the heavy walls and the raging blizzard outside, the muffled sound of automatic gunfire began to pop—tat-tat-tat-tat-tat—followed by the heavy thump of a grenade explosion that shook the foundations of the mansion.
Jonah and Blythe snapped awake, their eyes wide with terror.
"Daddy!" Blythe cried out, reaching her arms up.
"Dad! What's that noise?" Jonah gasped, trying to sit up, but his frail body was too weak, and he collapsed back onto his pillow, panting heavily.
Clara was instantly between the two beds, her arms spreading wide to cover them both. She looked at Lawson, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped hammer, but her eyes held no hysteria.
"What is happening?" she asked.
"Crosby Vane," Lawson said, walking to the heavy oak door of the suite. "He thinks my house is weak tonight. He brought his wolves to finish us."
He turned back to face her. From the ceiling above the doorway, a heavy, two-inch-thick solid steel blast door began to slide down with a hydraulic hiss, designed to seal the medical suite off from the rest of the estate in the event of an armed siege.
"That steel door will close in thirty seconds," Lawson told Clara, his eyes locking onto hers. "Once it shuts, no one can open it from the outside without the biometric keycard on my belt. You and the children will be completely safe. There is six hours of oxygen in that room, bulletproof walls, and an independent power generator."
"Where are you going?" Clara demanded.
"To kill every man who stepped onto my lawn," Lawson said flatly.
"Lawson, wait!" Clara took a step toward him, but the steel door was already halfway down, blocking her path.
Through the narrowing gap, Lawson looked at his children one last time. Jonah and Blythe were watching him, terrified, but for the first time in months, they weren't glassy-eyed or detached. They were alive, feeling, reacting.
"Keep them safe, Clara," Lawson whispered through the closing gap. "If I don't come back... the estate, the trusts, everything is set up for them. Prescott has instructions."
"Don't you dare talk like that!" Clara yelled, dropping to her knees so she could see his face through the six-inch gap left at the bottom of the lowering steel wall. "You hear me, Lawson Mercer? You bring your narrow mind and your arrogant heart back into this room alive! Your children need their father, not an inheritance! Do not leave them alone!"
Lawson looked down at her face through the tiny opening. A strange, dark, magnificent smile touched his lips—a real smile, ferocious and full of life.
"Forty-one hours left, Miss Vance," he said.
The steel door slammed shut with a deafening BOOM, sealing the room in absolute, impenetrable silence.
Outside in the hallway, Lawson turned around. The world was red, lit by the emergency strobe lights.
He didn't wear body armor. He didn't grab a rifle. He simply held his pistol in his right hand, pulled a second magazine from his pocket, and walked down the long, marble corridor toward the grand staircase like an ancient god of war descending into the underworld.
Downstairs, the front foyer was a scene of utter chaos.
The grand stained-glass windows above the main entrance had been blown inward, showering the marble floor with thousands of jagged, colorful shards. Four of Lawson’s guards were pinned down behind the heavy mahogany dining table, trading heavy rifle fire with six masked men dressed in winter camo who had breached the front doors.
Standing in the center of the ruined foyer, holding a gold-plated submachine gun, was Frank Russo—Crosby Vane’s chief enforcer. Russo was a massive man with a scarred face and a psychopathic grin, laughing as his men tore the mansion apart.
"Mercer!" Russo roared over the deafening gunfire. "Come out, come out, little king! We came to pay our respects to the dying brats!"
A silent shadow detached itself from the top of the grand staircase.
Lawson didn't shout. He didn't give a warning.
He fired three rounds in rapid succession—BANG! BANG! BANG!
The two men standing to Russo’s left dropped instantly, blood spraying across the white marble columns as 9mm rounds pierced their skulls. Before the remaining gunmen could react, Lawson was moving down the stairs with fluid, terrifying speed.
He was not a man defending a business. He was a father whose children’s sleep had been disturbed.
He fired with mathematical precision. Every shot was a kill-shot. BANG! A man trying to flank the staircase collapsed. BANG! Another gunman dropped behind the velvet sofa.
Russo spun around, his eyes widening in pure shock as he saw Lawson advancing through the smoke and muzzle flashes like a vengeful demon. Russo lifted his gold submachine gun, aiming for Lawson’s chest.
Lawson didn't even duck. He stepped right into Russo’s line of fire, raised his pistol, and shot Russo directly through his right hand.
The submachine gun dropped to the floor with a clatter, accompanied by Russo's agonized scream as his fingers were shattered.
Before Russo could fall, Lawson closed the distance, grabbed the massive man by his throat with his left hand, and slammed him backward against the jagged limestone fireplace mantel with enough force to crack the stone.
The remaining intruders, seeing their leader captured and half their team dead on the floor within ninety seconds, broke morale and fled out into the blinding snowstorm.
Silence returned to the foyer, broken only by the crackle of the lingering fires and Russo’s desperate, blood-choked gasps.
Prescott came running out from the west hallway, bleeding from a graze on his forehead, his rifle raised, followed by three surviving Mercer guards.
"Lawson!" Prescott panted, stopping short as he saw the blood-soaked foyer. "The perimeter is clear! Crosby’s main force retreated when they saw the armored plow blow up!"
Lawson didn't answer. His hand remained wrapped around Russo’s throat, pressing the man against the stone. Russo was hyperventilating, terror finally erasing the arrogant smirk from his scarred face.
"Lawson... please..." Russo choked out, his eyes bulging. "It was Crosby... Crosby sent us... he said you were soft... he said you wouldn't fight back..."
Lawson leaned in close to Russo's ear. His voice, when he spoke, was so quiet it didn't even carry to Prescott five feet away.
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"Tell Crosby Vane," Lawson whispered, "that my children are going to live. And tell him that tomorrow, I am coming to tear his heart out with my bare hands."
Lawson raised his pistol, pressed the barrel directly beneath Russo’s chin, and pulled the trigger.
