Chapter 4 - The House In Lake Forest
By 6:30 AM, the storm had transformed into a bitter grey fog rolling off Lake Michigan.
William’s convoy—three unmarked sedans following the Escalade—pulled to a stop half a mile down the private wooded road leading to the Whitmore estate in Lake Forest.
The estate was a sprawling, stone Tudor mansion surrounded by an eight-foot wrought-iron fence, motion security cameras, and manicured lawns hidden behind heavy pine trees.
William sat in the back of the Escalade, reviewing the charred medical charts Bear’s team had salvaged from Pendelton’s office.
Beside him, Pendelton was bound with heavy zip-ties, shaking uncontrollably.
“Julian Whitmore is nine years old,” William read aloud, his eyes tracking the clinical notes. “Diagnosed with severe aplastic anemia. Requires bi-weekly bone marrow harvests and platelet transfusions. Matched HLA typing required.”
He looked at Pendelton. “How did they know Diana was a match?”
“Crystal Reeves’s casino debt was bought by a subsidiary of Mercy General six months ago,” Pendelton whimpered. “When Crystal brought Diana to the hospital for a routine school physical last year, Richard Whitmore run a secret blood panel on the child. She was a nine-out-of-ten genetic match for his son.”
“So they engineered Crystal’s debt,” William realized, his blood running cold. “They drove her into a hole until selling her daughter was the only way out.”
“They have millions, William!” Pendelton begged. “They have the police chief on their payroll, three federal judges on their board, and a private security team made up of former special forces! You can’t attack this house!”
William ignored him. He picked up his phone and called his penthouse.
The line connected. “Boss,” one of his guards answered.
“Put Diana on the phone.”
A second later, the child’s small, hesitant voice came through the speaker. “Mr. William?”
William’s voice softened instantly, losing every trace of the cold killer he had been for twenty years. “Are you awake, little one?”
“Yes. The doctor lady gave me hot soup.” She hesitated. “Are you coming back?”
“I’m finishing something for you, Diana,” William said gently. “I need to ask you a question. When the lady with the yellow purse visited your apartment... did she leave anything?”
“She left a paper on the table,” Diana remembered. “It had a picture of a golden gate on it.”
“That’s the gate to her house,” William said. “Diana... did you leave anything there?”
Silence filled the line for three seconds. Then Diana whispered, “My shoes. The blue ones. The lady told me to leave them behind because princesses don't wear dirty shoes.”
William felt a knot tighten in his throat. “I’ll bring them back to you.”
“Mr. William?”
“Yes?”
“Don't let them hurt the other girl.”
William went still. “What other girl?”
“The girl in the picture,” Diana said softly. “The lady showed me a picture of her. She looked tired. She had blue shoes too.”
William closed his eyes. The first girl—the runaway from Milwaukee—had lived in that mansion for four months before her heart stopped.
“I won't,” William promised softly.
He hung up the phone. He looked out at the wrought-iron gates of the Whitmore estate looming through the fog.
He turned to Bear. “We aren't calling the police. We aren't waiting for a warrant.”
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“What’s the order, boss?” Bear asked, pulling a heavy tactical shotgun from beneath the front seat.
“We go in,” William said, his voice flat and terrifyingly clear. “If anyone raises a weapon to defend what’s inside that house... eliminate them.”
