Chapter 7 - The Night of the Wolves
Friday night arrived with a bitter, howling wind blowing off Lake Michigan. Fog rolled across the grounds of the Lake Forest estate, cloaking the pine trees in thick white shadows.
At 11:30 PM, a long, black SUV pulled quietly into the rear courtyard of the mansion.
Victor Vance stepped out, wearing a dark leather jacket, accompanied by Dr. Harrison and four heavily armed mercenaries wearing unmarked tactical gear.
Victor tapped his earpiece. “Mercer, we’re in. Roman’s private jet touched down at Teterboro ten minutes ago. He’s in Manhattan for the summit. The estate security is running on low-staff protocol.”
Over the comms, Grant Mercer’s voice crackled: “Good. Get inside. Administer a lethal dose of the paralytic to Ethan. Make it look like a sudden respiratory arrest. Once Ethan is dead, Roman will lose his mind and leave New York. That’s when my snipers will take him out outside his hotel.”
“Understood,” Victor said, a ruthless grin spreading across his face. “Let's finish this.”
They used Victor’s security clearance to bypass the side doors, entering through the basement service corridor. They walked silently up the stairs toward the medical wing.
The hallway was dark. The hum of the medical equipment in Ethan’s room echoed softly down the corridor.
Dr. Harrison pulled a large syringe from his pocket, pre-filled with a fatal concentration of potassium chloride and Neurolin-B.
“Quick and clean,” Harrison whispered. “Five minutes, and we walk out.”
Victor pushed open the door to Ethan’s room.
The bed was visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. A figure lay beneath the blankets, the heart monitor beep-beeping steadily.
Dr. Harrison stepped up to the bed, raising the syringe. He pulled back the blanket to find the IV line—
He froze.
The figure in the bed was not Ethan Hale.
It was a heavy, tactical training mannequin dressed in hospital gowns.
“What the—” Victor gasped, pulling his suppressed pistol from his holster.
Before he could raise it, the heavy oak doors behind them slammed shut with a deafening CRACK.
The room was instantly flooded with blinding white halogen stadium lights.
Victor and the mercenaries screamed, covering their eyes against the sudden glare.
From the shadow of the adjoining balcony stepped Roman Hale.
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He was wearing a custom dark suit, no tie, his hands casually resting in his pockets. Flanking him were Lev and twelve heavily armed Hale security operatives, their red laser sights pinning Victor and his men in a deadly web of crimson dots.
“Welcome home, Victor,” Roman said softly.
