Chapter 7 - The Final Siege
I didn't think. I acted.
I grabbed the assault rifle mounted under my desk, slammed a thirty-round magazine into the receiver, and sprinted down the grand marble staircase, leaving the federal agents behind.
The south gardens were a war zone.
Smoke grenades filled the air with thick gray haze. Three black tactical vans had smashed through the iron perimeter fence. Six mercenaries in unmarked body armor were firing suppressed automatic weapons toward the patio, suppressing Prescott’s security team.
Through the fog, I saw Harrison Vance standing near the open door of the lead van, dressed in a sharp gray suit, holding a silver revolver.
In front of him, two mercenaries were dragging Clara, while another held Jonah and Blythe by their arms.
"Harrison!" I roared, stepping out onto the terrace and firing a three-round burst that dropped the mercenary standing closest to my son.
Harrison spun around, his face twisting into a manic, terrified sneer. "Lawson! Stay back! Stay back or I kill the children right now!"
He grabbed Blythe by her arm, pressing the barrel of his revolver against her head.
My heart stopped. I froze in place, raising my hands, my rifle pointed at the ground. Prescott and four surviving guards stepped up behind me, their weapons raised, surrounding the patio.
"Harrison," I said, keeping my voice as steady as granite despite the terror screaming inside my head. "It’s over. The police know about the trust. Crosby confessed everything."
"Crosby was a weak, greedy fool!" Harrison shrieked, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "I built the Mercer fortune with your father for thirty years! When he died, he left everything to you—a arrogant, violent brute who didn't appreciate the wealth! Genevieve was going to ruin everything by giving away our medical patents! I had to fix it!"
"You tried to kill six-year-old children, Harrison!" Clara yelled, kicking backward against the mercenary holding her, catching him in the shin. She broke free and threw her body directly between Harrison’s gun and Blythe.
"Clara, move!" Harrison screamed.
"No!" Clara shouted, standing tall, shielding my daughter with her own body. "You destroyed my life! You put me in an asylum! You killed Genevieve! You won't take her children!"
In that split second of distraction, Jonah did what I had taught him to do in emergency drills: he dropped flat onto his stomach on the grass.
With Blythe shielded by Clara and Jonah on the ground, I had a clear line of sight.
I raised my rifle in a fraction of a second and fired a single shot.
The round struck Harrison directly in the right shoulder. His revolver flew from his hand, discharging harmlessly into the air as he fell backward onto the grass, screaming in pain.
Prescott and my security team rushed forward like a tidal wave. Within ten seconds, the remaining mercenaries were disarmed and pinned to the ground, and Harrison Vance was cuffed and bleeding in the dirt.
I dropped my rifle and sprinted across the lawn.
I scooped Jonah and Blythe into my arms, pulling them tight against my chest. They buried their faces in my neck, sobbing, but safe.
Clara fell to her knees beside us, catching her breath, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
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I reached out with my left arm, pulling Clara into the embrace, wrapping my heavy coat around her and my children.
"It's over," I whispered, resting my forehead against Clara’s shoulder as the wail of police sirens echoed in the distance. "It's finally over."
