Chapter 9 - The Struggle for the Floor
Julian’s fingers scraped frantically against the cold marble, his nails grazing the smooth plastic barrel of the syringe just as Arthur’s heavy leather shoe slammed down on top of his hand. Julian bit back a scream of agony as the heel ground down into his knuckles, pinning him to the floor. He looked up, his vision swimming with pain, to see Arthur reaching into his coat and pulling out a heavy, suppressed automatic pistol.
The dark muzzle of the gun swung downward, lining up directly with Julian’s forehead. The metallic smell of gun oil and impending death filled the air.
Arthur sneered, his voice dripping with venom:
“It’s a shame, Julian. We could have ruled the market together. But you just had to play the righteous hero.”
Before Arthur could pull the trigger, a sharp, piercing crack echoed through the foyer. Arthur gasped, his body stiffening violently as a spray of dark blood erupted from his right shoulder. He stumbled backward, dropping the pistol onto the marble floor where it skidded away into the darkness of the hallway.
Julian scrambled backward, clutching his crushed hand to his chest, and looked toward the stairs.
Standing near the landing was the man in the trench coat, his smoking firearm held steady in a two-handed grip, his face set in grim determination.
The man in the trench coat stated:
“My contract may be flexible, Arthur, but collateral damage involving a child violates my baseline code of conduct.”
Arthur clutched his bleeding shoulder, his expensive cashmere coat staining a dark, ugly crimson. He glared at the operative with pure hatred, leaning heavily against the mahogany side table for support.
Arthur spat out, his voice cracking:
“You fool… you’ve signed your own death warrant. They won’t just kill you; they’ll erase every trace of your existence.”
Clara rushed out from the dining room, ignoring the broken glass as she dropped to her knees beside Julian. She grabbed his injured hand, tears streaming down her face as she inspected the bruised and swollen knuckles.
Clara sobbed:
“Julian! Oh god, your hand… are you alright?”
Julian nodded grimly, gritting his teeth against the pain as he pulled himself up using the wall for support. He looked past Clara to where five-year-old Lily stood watching the entire scene with an unsettling, profound stillness, her little arms wrapped tightly around her teddy bear.
Julian whispered:
“Lily, sweetheart, come here. Come to Daddy.”
Lily shook her head slowly, her blonde hair swaying around her shoulders. She pointed a tiny finger toward the front door, which still stood slightly ajar, letting in the cold night wind.
Lily stated:
“We can’t leave yet, Daddy. The man in the wheelchair is pulling into the driveway.”
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Julian froze, turning his gaze from his daughter to the open doorway just as the twin beams of luxury headlights swept across the exterior wall of the foyer, casting long, twisting shadows that danced across the room.
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