Chapter 7 - Blood in the Snow
The morning air was crisp and biting as Lawson stepped through the reinforced iron gates of the estate. Behind him, twelve of his best men stood in silent formation, tactical rifles held at low ready.
Across the cleared asphalt stood Marcus Vance, a hulking, scarred brute who acted as Crosby’s primary executioner, flanked by eight heavily armed mercenaries.
“Lawson!” Marcus barked, flashing a yellow, predatory grin. “Crosby sends his regards. He says since your kids are basically dead anyway, you might as well hand over the north shipping docks before things get really messy.”
Lawson didn’t blink. He walked slowly toward the middle of the snowy drive, his hands shoved deep into his wool coat pockets.
“Crosby thinks he’s playing chess,” Lawson said, his voice carrying clearly across the silent courtyard. “Tell him he’s been playing with a board I burned down three days ago.”
Marcus’s smile faltered. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your offshore accounts being frozen, your shell clinics raided by federal marshals an hour ago, and Dr. Yates turning state’s evidence,” Lawson replied smoothly. “Your boss is a dead man walking, Marcus. And you’re standing out here in the cold playing errand boy for a ghost.”
Marcus’s face twisted with rage. He drew his sidearm, leveling it straight at Lawson’s chest. “I’ll start by sending the king to hell!”
Before Marcus’s finger could squeeze the trigger, a sharp crack echoed from the second-story window of the east wing.
A single bullet shattered Marcus’s weapon, sending the pistol flying from his hand in a shower of sparks and shredded steel.
Marcus screamed, clutching his bleeding, mangled palm. Across the courtyard, all eight of Crosby’s mercenaries froze, staring up at the window where Clara Vance stood holding a modified sniper rifle with professional, steady precision.
“Next one goes through your skull,” Clara called out from the window, her voice ringing clear and deadly across the yard.
May you like
Lawson didn’t even look back. He stepped closer to the terrified enforcer, grabbing Marcus by the collar of his jacket and lifting him off his feet with casual, terrifying strength.
“Tell Crosby I’m coming for dinner,” Lawson whispered into the enforcer’s ear. Then he tossed him backward into the snow like a sack of garbage. “Get off my property.”
