Chapter 7 - THE GATES OF LAKE FOREST
The iron gates of the Bennett Estate in Lake Forest stood twelve feet tall, crowned with decorative wrought-iron spikes and reinforced with electronic magnetic deadbolts that could withstand a battering ram. Beyond the gates, the private driveway wound for half a mile through dark, rain-soaked oak trees toward the massive brick mansion that had housed four generations of Bennett secrets.
Lucas didn't wait for Marcus's reinforcements.
Driving a sixty-ton commercial Mack dump truck commandeered from one of his nearby downtown construction staging yards, Lucas hit the accelerator two hundred yards out. The twelve-cylinder diesel engine roared, belching black smoke into the torrential rain, gathering lethal momentum on the slick asphalt.
"Hang on!" Lucas roared to Marcus, who was braced in the passenger seat with his hands planted firmly on the steel dash.
The heavy steel bumper of the dump truck struck the center meeting point of the iron gates at fifty miles per hour.
The sound was like an artillery shell detonating. The heavy hinges tore free from the stone pillars in an explosion of masonry, brick dust, and shattered iron. The gates crumpled like tin foil beneath the wheels as the massive truck plowed through, skidding across the manicured lawn, tearing up deep trenches of mud, before Lucas brought it to an abrupt, shuddering halt directly on the front steps of the portico.
Two private security guards ran out from the side veranda, raising their weapons, but Marcus Vance was out of the truck's passenger door before the tires had stopped spinning. Two suppressed shots from Marcus's weapon hit the ground at the guards' feet, followed by a third that shattered the heavy wooden front doors.
"Drop them!" Marcus barked, his federal credentials held high in his left hand while his right maintained dead aim. "Federal officers on the premises! On the ground now!"
The two guards, recognizing the former marshal and the pure, homicidal fury radiating from Lucas, dropped their sidearms and pressed themselves flat into the muddy lawn.
Lucas leaped down from the cab, carrying an eight-pound heavy construction sledgehammer he had grabbed from the truck bed. He charged through the shattered front entrance, his work boots tracking mud and rain across the pristine Persian rugs of the grand foyer.
The house was dead silent, smelling of damp wool, expensive floor wax, and the sharp, chemical tang of antiseptic drifting up from the basement stairs.
"Lucas!" a voice called from the top of the sweeping spiral staircase.
Lucas turned, raising the sledgehammer.
Richard stood on the landing, wearing his suit without the jacket, his white sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened. But the smug arrogance was completely gone from his face. His hair was disheveled, and his hands were trembling as he held a small silver semi-automatic pistol pointed directly down at Lucas's chest.
"Stay right there, cousin!" Richard shouted, his voice cracking with hysteria. "It's too late! Harris is already administering the spinal block! If you step foot down those basement stairs, I will shoot you, and the police will find your body next to a deranged husband who broke in to murder his own mother!"
"You're shaking, Richard," Lucas said, taking a slow, heavy step forward, his boots thudding against the bottom riser. "You're a corporate lawyer who hides behind legal pads and tamed judges. You've never fired a gun in your life."
"Try me, Lucas!" Richard shrieked, cocking the slide with a clumsy, panicked movement. "You think you're the only one who deserves this empire? Your father treated my side of the family like stray dogs! We did the dirty work! We laundered the trust assets! We kept the mistresses quiet! And your father wrote a will that gave everything to you—and then to your unborn brat with a Wisconsin baker!"
"My father knew you were a snake," Lucas said, taking another step. "And he knew Margaret was a monster."
Richard pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck the oak bannister six inches from Lucas's hip, sending sharp splinters flying into the air.
Before Richard could steady his shaking hands for a second shot, Marcus fired from the doorway. The bullet tore through the meat of Richard's right shoulder.
Richard screamed, dropping the pistol, and tumbled backward onto the landing, clutching his bloody shoulder and sobbing in agony.
Lucas didn't even look at his fallen cousin as he strode past him. He reached the heavy oak door leading to the basement medical suite, swung the eight-pound sledgehammer with the full force of his body, and shattered the brass lock in a shower of metal fragments.
He kicked the door open and charged down the stairs into the cellar.
The scene in the underground room was frozen in horror.
Emma was strapped down to the operating table, her face drenched in sweat, her chest heaving as she fought against the wrist restraints. A cowardly-looking man in surgical scrubs—Dr. Harris—was holding a large needle above her exposed belly, his hands shaking violently as he looked toward the doorway.
Margaret Bennett stood at the foot of the table, holding a sterile scalpel in her gloved hand, her face contorted with an expression of pure, unadulterated madness.
"Get away from her," Lucas whispered, the sledgehammer dragging across the concrete floor with a sound that chilled the air.
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Margaret didn't drop the scalpel. She raised it, pressing the gleaming steel tip directly against Emma’s swollen stomach.
"Take one more step, Lucas," Margaret hissed, her eyes wide, wild, and entirely divorced from sanity, "and I will cut your heir out of her right now."
