Chapter 10 - The Siege on the Fortress Gates
The retaliation from the rival South Side crew was swift, but it was the act of a desperate, dying animal. At 11:42 p.m. on Wednesday night, three black sedans smashed through the secondary iron gates of the Mercer estate, their windows down as automatic weapons fire chewed through the brick pillars and the reinforced glass of the security lodge.
"Intruders on the north perimeter!" Prescott’s voice cut through the house intercom system.
Inside the nursery, Waverly didn't wait for instructions. She grabbed Jonah and Blythe from their beds, carrying them both into the hidden safe room behind the master walk-in closet before the first alarm siren had even finished its first cycle.
The safe room was a small, steel-lined bunker equipped with its own oxygen supply, medical monitors, and a row of digital security screens showing every angle of the house. Waverly sat on the floor, the twins huddled against her lap, her eyes fixed on the central monitor.
On the screen, Lawson Mercer was standing in the main grand foyer. He didn't have a vest. He didn't have a rifle. He held a simple, heavy silver revolver in his right hand, his posture perfectly calm as the front oak doors of his home were blown off their hinges by a thermal charge.
Two of Silvio Valetti’s hitmen lunged through the smoke, their weapons raised.
Lawson didn't take cover. He stepped forward into the path of the bullets, his arm rising with a fluid, terrifying precision.
Boom. Boom.
The heavy silver revolver barked twice, the sound shaking the security microphones. Both hitmen dropped to the marble floor before they had even crossed the threshold. Behind them, Prescott and a line of ten uniform Mercer guards opened fire with tactical shotguns, turning the snowy front driveway into a meat grinder within ninety seconds.
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On the monitor, Waverly watched Lawson walk out onto the blood-stained snow of his front porch. He looked down at the last surviving driver of the rival sedans, who was crawling through the slush with a broken leg.
"Tell Silvio," Lawson said, his voice carrying clearly through the external audio feed, "that if he ever looks at my house again, I won't just take his docks. I’ll bury his entire name under the concrete of the new terminal. Clear this mess up, Prescott."
