Lawson had prepared the Mercer estate for an attack.
He had never prepared himself to hear his daughter screaming in the middle of one.
“Stay here,” he told Mara.
She followed him.
“I said stay.”
“The children are that way.”
“So are armed men.”
“That hasn't stopped you.”
“I'm armed.”
“So is half your furniture, probably.”
He would have argued if there had been time.
Prescott's voice came through the radio.
“Generator line was cut manually. Three intruders confirmed near the service corridor. Maybe more.”
“Children's wing?”
“Locked.”
Lawson moved faster.
“What do they want?”
Prescott's answer came after gunfire cracked again.
“You know what they want.”
Mara.
The donor.
Hope itself.
At the junction near the kitchen, Lawson stopped her.
“You're going to the safe room.”
“No.”
“That wasn't a request.”
“Then stop wasting time asking.”
He stared at her.
Even in dim emergency light, the resemblance to Genevieve was unbearable.
“You die tonight, they die with you.”
Mara's face changed.
Lawson immediately regretted how brutally he had said it.
But she nodded.
“All right.”
Prescott appeared with two guards.
“Take her downstairs.”
Mara caught Lawson's wrist before leaving.
“Bring yourself back too.”
Then she disappeared toward the secure stairwell.
Lawson turned toward the east wing.
The attack lasted eleven minutes.
It felt like eleven years.
Crosby's men had not attempted a full assault on the estate. That would have been suicide.
Instead, they created chaos.
One group cut the external generator feed.
Another triggered a false fire alarm near the garage.
A third entered through a service entrance using credentials stolen from a former contractor.
Their goal was not Lawson.
Not the twins.
Mara.
Prescott realized it when one intruder shouted into a radio:
“Find the donor.”
That phrase removed every remaining doubt.
Lawson's guards captured two men.
A third escaped over the north wall.
One security officer was wounded in the shoulder.
Another suffered a broken arm.
No one died.
Crosby's strategy had been clever.
Create enough panic to force an evacuation.
Grab Mara while everyone moved.
It failed because Lawson never evacuated the children.
The east wing sealed automatically.
The twins remained behind reinforced doors with Dr. Yates and two nurses.
When Lawson finally entered, Blythe reached for him immediately.
He sat on her bed.
Jonah was trying not to cry.
“Were those guns?”
Lawson looked at Dr. Yates.
The doctor wisely looked away.
“Yes.”
“Bad guys?”
“Yes.”
“Did you beat them?”
“Jonah,” Blythe whispered.
“What?”
“You can't ask Dad that.”
“Why?”
She thought about it.
“I don't know.”
Lawson touched Jonah's shoulder.
“Everyone is safe.”
“Where's Aunt Mara?”
“Safe too.”
Blythe looked at him carefully.
“Promise?”
Lawson's stomach twisted.
He had promised no one was going anywhere.
He no longer trusted promises.
But this one he could answer.
“I promise.”
Mara arrived ten minutes later.
Both children relaxed when they saw her.
Jonah lifted his blanket.
“You can hide here if you want.”
Mara smiled.
“Thank you.”
“You're too big,” Blythe said.
“I'll fold.”
“No,” Lawson said.
Blythe giggled.
It was such an ordinary sound that everyone stopped.
Lawson looked around.
Dr. Yates.
Mara.
The nurses.
His children.
Suddenly he understood something.
Crosby believed the attack would frighten him.
Instead, it clarified him.
Lawson had spent years convincing himself that power kept his family safe.
But power attracted enemies.
Walls created targets.
Fear demanded more fear.
Genevieve had understood that.
Maybe Mara did too.
Hours later, after the mansion had been secured, Prescott found Lawson in the study.
“We have one attacker talking.”
“Name?”
“Derek Shaw. Freelance.”
“Vane?”
“He won't say directly.”
“He doesn't need to.”
“He says the job was retrieval only.”
Lawson's eyes narrowed.
“Retrieval.”
“Mara alive.”
“Why?”
“Leverage.”
Lawson walked toward the window.
Prescott continued.
“There's more.”
“What?”
“Crosby wants a meeting.”
“No.”
“He says if you give him control of the riverfront terminals, he leaves Mara alone.”
Lawson laughed without humor.
“And when he wants something next month?”
“Exactly.”
“I want everything we have on Vane.”
Prescott looked surprised.
“We already have—”
“Not guns.”
Lawson turned.
“Evidence.”
Prescott stared.
“Financial records. Bribes. Shell corporations. The alderman payments. Everything.”
“You want to give it to the authorities?”
“I want Crosby unable to come near my children ever again.”
Prescott considered him.
“Old Lawson would have handled this differently.”
“Old Lawson didn't have ten days.”
Prescott nodded.
“I'll prepare it.”
The next morning, Mara began donor preparation.
The injections made her bones ache.
She joked about it.
Lawson did not find it funny.
“You don't need to stand outside the collection room,” she told him.
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“I have nowhere else to be.”
“You own half the city.”
“Then half the city can wait.”
The collection took hours.
Mara became pale.
Lawson brought her water.
She stared at him.
“What?”
“You brought me water.”
“I know how cups work.”
“No assistant.”
“Mara.”
“No silver tray.”
He rolled his eyes.
She smiled.
“You might become human yet.”
“Don't spread that rumor.”
Across the hall, Jonah and Blythe underwent the first stage of treatment.
Blythe developed a fever.
Jonah became nauseated.
Every complication terrified Lawson.
Every monitor alarm felt like a gun being fired beside his head.
At two in the afternoon, Dr. Feld came out of Blythe's room.
“We need to delay her infusion.”
Lawson stood immediately.
“Why?”
“Her fever is too high.”
“For how long?”
“Until we stabilize it.”
“You said time matters.”
“It does.”
“Then fix it.”
“We're trying.”
Mara appeared in the hallway, walking slowly.
“You should be resting,” Lawson said.
“So should you.”
Dr. Feld went back inside.
Mara sat beside Lawson.
For ten minutes neither spoke.
Then Lawson said the thing he had refused to say even to himself.
“I'm going to lose her.”
Mara turned.
“No one knows that.”
“I do.”
“You don't.”
“I've watched people die.”
“Not Blythe.”
His voice broke.
That tiny fracture shocked them both.
“I can't do this again.”
Mara understood exactly what he meant.
Genevieve.
She reached for his hand.
Lawson let her.
“When my mother died,” Mara said, “I thought knowing it was coming would make it easier.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
He almost laughed.
“Terrible encouragement.”
“I'm not finished.”
She tightened her fingers.
“What I learned was that fear steals time before death ever gets the chance.”
Lawson stared ahead.
“Blythe is alive right now.”
Mara continued.
“Jonah is alive right now.”
A pause.
“You are their father right now.”
Lawson closed his eyes.
Then he stood.
“Come with me.”
They entered the children's room.
The twins were exhausted.
Blythe's fever remained high.
Lawson sat between their beds.
“What are we doing?” Jonah whispered.
Lawson looked at Mara.
She understood.
“Story time,” she said.
“I don't want a story.”
“Good. This one is terrible.”
Jonah sighed dramatically.
Mara began telling them about a princess who hated castles and a dragon who wanted to become an accountant.
The plot made no sense.
Blythe smiled anyway.
Lawson added details.
The dragon owned three warehouses.
Mara objected.
The dragon clearly owned a bakery.
Jonah insisted the dragon owned both.
For forty minutes, the machines continued beeping.
Fever still burned through Blythe's small body.
Outside, armed guards protected the hallway.
Somewhere in Chicago, Crosby Vane waited for Lawson to retaliate.
Lawson didn't.
He stayed beside his children.
Near midnight, Blythe's temperature finally began to fall.
Dr. Feld smiled for the first time.
“If it stays down, we proceed tomorrow.”
Lawson looked at Mara.
Hope again.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
Alive.
Then Prescott entered carrying a tablet.
“We have enough evidence.”
“For Vane?”
“Yes.”
Lawson took it.
Prescott hesitated.
“There is one problem.”
“What?”
“One of Crosby's payments went to someone we've trusted for years.”
Lawson looked at the name.
His face went still.
It was someone with direct access to the Mercer estate.
Someone who knew the children's schedules.
Someone who had known about Genevieve.
And, according to the records, someone who had received money from Crosby Vane the week before Genevieve died.
Lawson looked up.
“Find him.”
“Already did.”
Prescott's expression was grim.
“He's gone.”
---