Chapter 9 - The Ghost of the Past
Behind Julian, standing in the open doorway of the study, was Eleanor. In her uninjured hand, she held a double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun—the weapon her late husband had kept loaded in the safe behind the portraits. Smoke curled lazily from the right barrel, smelling of sulfur and burnt gunpowder.
Julian looked down at his chest, completely bewildered. He looked back up at Eleanor, his lips parting as if to utter one final threat or demand, but only a wet rattle emerged. He collapsed forward onto the Persian rug, unmoving.
Marcus, still dazed on the floor, froze. The barrel of the shotgun slowly shifted, centering squarely between his eyes. The remaining hammer clicked back.
“Get up,” Eleanor said, her voice devoid of human warmth.
Marcus slowly raised his hands, the fight completely drained out of him. He was a mercenary, not a zealot; he had no desire to die on a soaked carpet for a dead billionaire. “Look, lady… I was just following orders. I can walk away. You won’t ever see me again.”
“You will walk away,” Eleanor agreed, her finger resting lightly against the cold curve of the trigger. “After you carry his body out to your car. And after you hand over your phone.”
May you like
Marcus nodded frantically, pulling the encrypted phone from his vest and tossing it gently toward her feet. He knew a killer when he saw one, and Eleanor had crossed that threshold without blinking.
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