Chapter 50 - The Gathering of the Wolves
I could not sit in that car. Every maternal instinct I possessed screamed against the cold metal confines of the Mercedes.
"Clara! What are you doing?!" Julian shouted as I unlatched the rear door.
"He is my son, Julian," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. "If Sterling Cross wants to finish what started in 1979, he will face the woman who survived it, not just the boy who inherited it."
I slipped out into the freezing deluge, the rain soaking my coat within seconds. I kept low, moving along the stone terrace wall toward the library's exterior French doors. The sound of distant thunder masked the squelch of my shoes against the sodden grass.
Inside the grand library, the air smelled of ozone, wet concrete, and burning wood.
Two of Cross’s mercenaries were using a heavy rotary demolition saw on the ancient stone mantelpiece of the grand hearth. Sparks rained down onto the antique Persian rug as the diamond blade tore through the century-old limestone.
Standing in the center of the room, leaning on his falcon-headed cane, was Sterling Cross. His coat was drenched, his silver hair plastered to his forehead, his face twisted in manic anticipation. Beside him stood Victoria Vance, frantically scanning the room with a flashlight, her expensive heels covered in soot.
"Hurry up, damn you!" Cross barked at the workers. "The sun touches the ridge in fifteen minutes! Find the lead-lined box behind the flue!"
"Looking for this, Sterling?"
A voice sliced through the din of the saw.
The demolition blade sputtered and died. Victoria gasped, dropping her flashlight onto the floor.
Derek stepped out from the shadowed doorway of the adjoining study, holding a heavy, tarnished brass lockbox in his left hand. In his right hand, leveled squarely at the center of Cross’s chest, was Arthur’s revolver.
"Drop your weapons," Derek commanded the two mercenaries. "Both of you. Put the saw down and step against the east bookshelves, or I swear to God your employer won't live to see the sunset."
The two tactical guards looked at Derek, then at each other. They were mercenaries, paid to intimidate and breach, not to die for an old man's half-century vendetta against a dead partner. Slowly, deliberately, they unslung their sidearms, dropped them onto the stone floor, and backed away with their hands raised.
"You pathetic cowards!" Victoria screamed at them. "Pick those up! Shoot him!"
"They won't," Derek said coldly. "Because they know who signs their death warrants if they pull a trigger in this room."
Cross slowly turned around, his cane tapping once against the charred floor. He looked at the tarnished brass box in Derek’s hands. A grotesque, yellowed grin spread across his scarred face.
"Arthur’s boy," Cross murmured, his voice dripping with venom. "You think holding a gun makes you a man? Your father held a weapon to my face on the Newport docks forty years ago. And when it came down to pulling the trigger, his hands shook just like yours are shaking right now."
"My hands aren't shaking, Sterling," Derek said, his finger resting firmly on the trigger guard.
"Then shoot me!" Cross roared, taking a limping step forward, raising his cane like a saber. "Shoot an unarmed old man in your mother’s library! Prove to the world that the Millers are nothing but murderers and thieves!"
"He doesn't have to shoot you, Sterling," I said, stepping through the shattered French doors into the room, rain streaming down my face.
May you like
Cross froze, his head snapping toward me.
Behind me, the wail of dozens of police sirens tore through the stormy evening, growing louder by the second as Massachusetts State Police cruisers and FBI vehicles swarmed up the Oakridge driveway, their red and blue strobe lights painting the drenched trees in flashing crimson.
