Chapter 4 - The Fire at Mercer Estate
The gunfire started at the main foyer doors before we even reached the service elevator.
Heavy automatic rounds tore through the heavy oak panels, splintering wood and shattering the grand chandelier into thousands of falling crystal shards.
"Go! Go!" Prescott barked, firing his suppressed Sig Sauer down the corridor as two men in black tactical gear breached the side entrance.
My estate security force was made up of former special operations veterans, but Arthur Yates had sent a military-grade strike team. Smoke grenades detonated in the lower halls, filling the house with thick, suffocating grey mist.
I dragged Franklin Yates by his collar into the private medical elevator. Elena pushed the rolling stretchers containing Jonah and Blythe inside, her hands surprisingly steady as she hooked up their portable oxygen monitors.
"Prescott! Get the transport ready in the underground garage!" I shouted over the deafening noise of small-arms fire echoing up the elevator shaft.
"I'm holding the lobby, sir!" Prescott replied over the comms, the sound of heavy gunfire drowning out his voice. "Take the armored Suburban! Drive straight through the north exit!"
The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the sound of the battle above.
Inside the small, stainless-steel cab, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Franklin Yates was shivering, staring at the floor as blood dripped from his chin onto his expensive silk tie.
"They won't let you reach downtown, Lawson," Yates muttered. "Arthur has the entire municipal police frequency monitored. The moment your vehicle leaves this property, he’ll have city tactical teams blockading the bridges."
I pulled a heavy tactical vest from the elevator’s emergency supply panel, strapped it over my suit, and handed a light 9mm pistol to Elena.
She held it with practiced familiarity, checking the magazine index without hesitation.
I raised an eyebrow. "Genevieve didn't just give you a necklace, did she?"
"Your wife spent the last six months of her life preparing for this night, Mr. Mercer," Elena said softly, keeping her eyes on the floor indicator as it descended. "She knew if she died, I would need to be able to fight my way back to her children."
The elevator hummed to a halt in the sub-basement garage.
The heavy steel doors opened. Standing beside my custom, fully armored Chevrolet Suburban was my secondary security chief, Vance, holding two automatic rifles.
"The north gate is clear, Mr. Mercer," Vance reported. "Prescott's team redirected their primary assault to the front courtyard. But we’ve got three minutes before their perimeter scouts circle back."
"Get the kids in the back," I ordered.
We carefully transferred Jonah and Blythe onto the reinforced rear seats, securing their IV lines to the interior mounting racks. Blythe opened her eyes briefly, her tiny hand reaching out to touch my sleeve.
"Daddy... is Mommy here?" she whispered, her eyes glossy with fever.
I leaned down, kissing her cold forehead, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces. "Mommy sent help, baby. We're going to get you fixed. I promise."
I slammed the heavy armored door, tossed Franklin Yates into the front passenger seat, and took the wheel. Elena climbed into the back beside the children.
I shoved the transmission into drive, slammed my foot on the accelerator, and the eight-thousand-pound armored vehicle roared down the concrete subterranean ramp, bursting out into the rainy Chicago night just as an explosion ripped through the upper floors of my home.
In the rearview mirror, I watched the flames consuming the third-floor estate wing.
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My home was gone. But my children were still breathing.
And I had thirty-six hours left to tear Vanguard Bio-Tech to the ground.
