Chapter 4 - Robert Mercer Arrives
Outside the master bathroom door, Derek paced across the plush bedroom carpet like a caged predator. His expensive suit jacket was discarded on the armchair, his white dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his muscular forearms, revealing taut, angry veins.
"Go ahead, let your pathetic old man come all the way out here," Derek muttered, sneering at the locked door as he pulled a heavy bronze paperweight from the oak desk. "What is he going to do? Write me a parking ticket? File a missing persons report for a willing runaway?"
He struck the bathroom door again with his shoulder, splintering the frame near the deadbolt. "Open this door right now, Hannah! We are going to finish this conversation like adults, or I swear to God I'll kick this wood straight through!"
Inside the bathroom, Hannah pressed her back against the tiled wall, pulling her knees up to her chest as another sharp contraction gripped her abdomen. Fear for her safety was eclipsed entirely by the terrifying thought of what Derek might do to her father when Robert arrived alone.
Dad is sixty-one, a panicked voice screamed inside her head. Derek is forty-two, aggressive, and ruthless.
Before Derek could swing his weight against the door a third time, a sharp, piercing sound cut through the quiet suburban night from the front driveway below.
Screeeech—
The distinct, unmistakable sound of heavy truck tires locking up on asphalt echoed loudly against the garage door, followed immediately by the deep, resonant roar of a heavy-duty diesel engine slamming into park. Car doors slammed shut with simultaneous, military-grade precision.
Derek froze mid-swing, his arm hovering inches from the splintered wood. He turned his head toward the master bedroom windows that overlooked the front circular drive.
"What the hell?" Derek muttered, walking cautiously toward the sheer curtains.
Hannah held her breath, pressing her ear against the bathroom door.
Downstairs, the front doorbell didn't just ring—it was struck once, hard and heavy, by a fist or a heavy boot, vibrating through the entire structural framework of the house. Before anyone could even cross the foyer, the heavy mahogany front entrance didn't just open; it splintered inward with a loud, metallic crash as the deadbolt sheared completely out of the doorjamb.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed across the marble foyer and began mounting the curved staircase two at a time.
"Who the hell is in my house?!" Derek shouted, stepping out of the master bedroom into the upper hallway, his face flushing with arrogant fury as he reached toward his waistline where he kept a concealed carry holster.
He didn't even get his hand on his weapon.
At the top of the stairs stood Robert Mercer.
He wasn't wearing his usual Sunday gardening clothes or a faded flannel shirt. Robert wore a heavy dark canvas utility jacket over a tactical undershirt, his gray hair slightly ruffled by the wind. But it wasn't his clothing that made Derek freeze in his tracks; it was his eyes. They were the cold, dead, utterly fearless eyes of a veteran investigator who had spent decades dealing with violent criminals far more dangerous than a pampered suburban real estate developer.
Flanking Robert at the top of the landing were two massive, broad-shouldered men in plainclothes—former tactical officers Robert had called on his drive over from Franklin.
Derek swallowed hard, his arrogant composure instantly evaporating into thin air. "M-Mr. Mercer? What the hell do you think you're doing? Breaking and entering? I'll call the police right now and have you—"
Robert didn't let him finish the sentence.
Without breaking stride, Robert crossed the hallway in two rapid steps and delivered a devastating, flat-palmed strike directly to Derek’s chest. The sudden, calculated impact knocked the wind entirely out of Derek, sending him staggering backward until his spine slammed hard against the wall beside the master bedroom.
"You touch my daughter?" Robert’s voice wasn't raised in a shout; it was low, steady, and terrifyingly cold—the voice of a man reading a death warrant.
"I didn't—she's hysterical—she's lying!" Derek gasped for air, his hands flying up defensively as one of Robert’s associates stepped forward, pinning Derek’s arms effortlessly against the drywall.
"Open the bathroom door, Hannah," Robert called out, his tone instantly softening as he turned toward the splintered white wood. "It's safe, sweetheart. I'm right here."
With trembling fingers, Hannah turned the lock, pulled the door open, and stepped out into the hallway.
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When Robert saw the dark bruises blooming across her forearm and the red welt on her cheek, the last remaining restraint in his eyes snapped completely. He looked back at Derek, who was struggling uselessly against the grip of the two former officers.
"Pack your bags, Calloway," Robert said quietly, stepping close enough for Derek to feel the sheer fury radiating off him. "Because by sunrise, you won't just be single. You won't have a company, you won't have a bank account, and you won't have a single asset left in this state."
