Chapter 4 - The Fortress of Franklin
The wrought-iron gates of the Whitmore estate in Franklin rose out of the night like the teeth of a predatory beast.
Surrounding the five-acre perimeter were eight black tactical vans, their headlights dark, with thirty heavily armed operators from my private security division securing every exit.
My SUV roared through the front gates, obliterating the electronic lock with a concussive crunch of steel and shattered brick.
I pulled up directly before the grand stone steps of the six-bedroom manor, killing the engine.
"Stay in the vehicle with the boys, Megan," I said, adjusting the straps of my tactical vest. "Killian has four guards watching this car. Nobody will touch you."
Megan looked at me, her silver eyes blazing with a maternal fire that made the rain outside look like a gentle mist.
"You threw me out of our home because you didn't have the courage to look at the truth, Rowan," she said, her voice cutting through the heated cabin. "I am not sitting in a car while another woman holds my stolen child. I am coming inside."
I looked at the fierce determination carved into her pale face and realized that the gentle, quiet girl I had married had been forged into an unbreakable warrior queen.
"Take my sidearm," I said, handing her a loaded, compact nine-millimeter pistol. "Keep the safety off."
She took the weapon with practiced, steady fingers, tucking it into the pocket of my oversized cashmere coat, cradling both babies securely in the double front wrap against her chest.
We climbed the marble stairs together.
Before I could reach the brass handle, the double doors flew open.
Gideon Pike stood in the grand foyer, holding a semi-automatic shotgun, flanked by six private security guards wearing Whitmore corporate badges.
"Rowan!" Gideon yelled, his voice carrying a panicked tremor as he saw my tactical team taking positions along the terrace. "What the hell is this?! Claire said you went to Nashville to handle a shipping discrepancy!"
"The discrepancy has been handled, Gideon," I replied, stepping across the threshold, my customized pistol leveled directly at his forehead. "Starting with Mercer's confession."
Gideon’s face drained of color until he looked like a walking corpse. His grip on the shotgun wavered.
"Rowan, listen to me..." Gideon stammered, backing toward the grand curved staircase. "Claire promised me twenty percent of the northern distribution lines! She said you would never find out! She swore the girl would be raised in Europe!"
"Drop the weapon, Gideon," I commanded, my voice flat, cold, and lethal. "Before I paint this foyer with your brains."
Gideon looked at the red laser sights painting his chest from four different windows, slowly lowered the shotgun, and let it clatter onto the marble tiles.
"Where is she?" Megan’s voice echoed across the vaulted ceiling like a whip of thunder.
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From the top of the grand staircase, a sharp, familiar voice cut through the silence:
"She belongs to me, Rowan!"
