Chapter 7 - THE WAREHOUSE WARThe gilded ballroom of Cross Manor looked like a slaughterhouse by 5:00 AM.
Seven of Slade’s elite mercenaries were bound and zip-tied in the center of the parquet floor, their tactical gear stripped, their weapons piled in a neat, lethal stack beside the grand piano. Marcus stood over them with his Remington resting casually against his boot, while four of Roman’s loyal syndicate capos patrolled the perimeter with suppressed submachine guns.
Roman didn't join them in the ballroom. He stood in the underground armory behind the wine cellar, sliding an extended magazine into a customized Sig Sauer P226 with cold, methodical precision.
"Boss," Marcus said, jogging down the spiral stairs with a radio in his hand. "Slade’s broadcasted on our local frequency. He says if we don't hand over the dishwasher and the boy by dawn, he’s going to bring down every precinct captain on our payroll and leak the federal tax ledgers to the Tribune."
Roman locked the slide of the pistol with a sharp clack. "Let him leak them. Half those captains are ready to retire anyway."
"He’s also got fifty armed men surrounding the estate," Marcus added, his voice dropping. "And he brought a heavy-duty hydraulic winch. They’re hooking it to the front iron gates right now."
"Good," Roman said, turning around with a look that made even Marcus take a half-step back. "Save me the trouble of hunting him down in the city. Tell the boys to open the front doors. All of them."
Upstairs, in the safety of the reinforced West Wing, Ivy sat on the edge of Max’s bed.
The boy was no longer clutching Commander Floppy. Instead, he was holding the yellow crayon he’d used to draw the picture of his parents. His small fingers were pressing down hard on a fresh sheet of paper, moving back and forth with fierce, desperate energy.
"Are you scared?" Ivy asked quietly, her hand resting gently on his small shoulder.
Max didn't stop drawing. "Dad’s going to break them," he said, his voice stronger now, the sand in his throat clearing away like mist before the sun. "He broke the big table in the basement when the bad men stole his truck."
Ivy couldn't help the small, humorless smile that touched her lips. "Your dad is a very stubborn man, Max. But sometimes stubborn isn't enough when there's a whole army outside the door."
"He's not just stubborn," Max said, stopping his crayon and looking up at her with those dark, bottomless eyes that looked so much like Claire's. "He has the key."
"What key?"
May you like
Before Max could answer, the entire western wall of the mansion shuddered with a concussive roar that blew the double-paned windows inward in a cascade of glittering glass shards.
Dust and freezing lake wind rushed into the nursery. Down below, in the front courtyard, the screech of tearing iron echoed through the night as Slade’s winch ripped the main gates completely off their reinforced stone hinges.
