Chapter 4 - The Gunshot
In the study, the barrel of Gordon’s revolver gleamed under the amber desk lamp.
“Drop the weapon fantasy, Gordon,” Vincent said, his voice entirely steady, though every muscle in his body was coiled like a spring. “You won't make it to the gate. The east exit is locked from the main security console.”
“Is it?” Gordon smiled, a tight, nervous grimace. “Let me introduce you to your new head of security, Vincent. Or did you forget who programs the biometric locks on the perimeter gates?”
Before Vincent could move, the heavy oak doors of the study pushed open.
A man stepped inside—one of the senior perimeter guards, a hulking ex-marine named Miller whom Vincent had trusted with his life on a dozen supply runs. Miller wasn't wearing his standard uniform cap, and his hand was resting casually on the butt of his sidearm.
“Evening, Mr. Calloway,” Miller said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Vincent looked from the guard to Gordon. The betrayal wasn't just a single rogue employee; it was an infection that had rotted the foundation of his entire operation from the inside out.
“How much did they pay you, Miller?” Vincent asked quietly.
“Enough to retire to Costa Rica,” Miller replied without a trace of shame. “The Calloway family had a good run, boss. But empires fall. It’s just business.”
“Business,” Vincent repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.
“End of conversation,” Gordon snapped, his revolver steadying. “Miller, tie him to the chair with the leather straps from the equestrian gear in the mudroom. Then we’ll set the timer on the gas line in the basement kitchen. By the time the fire department gets out here from Evanston, there won't be enough left of this house to dig for bones.”
Miller stepped forward, pulling a length of nylon cord from his pocket.
Vincent didn't flinch. His eyes locked onto Gordon’s finger on the trigger, calculating the distance, the angle, the fraction of a second it would take to lunge. He knew he might take a bullet. In his line of work, he had accepted that possibility a thousand times before.
But as Miller reached out to grab his shoulder, a sudden, sharp sound cut through the silence of the study.
Bang.
The shot didn't come from Gordon’s gun.
It came from the doorway.
Miller grunted, his eyes widening in shock as a bloom of dark red spread across the chest of his tactical vest. He staggered backward, tripped over the edge of the Persian rug, and crashed heavily against the bookshelf, knocking a half-dozen leather-bound volumes onto the floor before sliding into stillness.
Gordon spun around, his revolver swinging toward the door.
Standing in the entryway, holding a heavy-gauge hunting rifle she had pulled from the estate’s ground-floor armory locker, was Claire Bennett.
Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely keep the barrel level, her hair had completely come undone around her face, and her eyes were wide with a terrifying, desperate adrenaline.
“Put the gun down, Gordon,” Claire screamed, her voice cracking in the quiet room. “Put it down or I swear to God I’ll blow your head off!”
Gordon stared at her, stunned for a fraction of a second before a cold, ugly smirk returned to his face.
“Well, well,” Gordon hissed. “The cleaning lady thinks she’s a hero.”
He didn't hesitate. He swung his barrel away from Vincent and aimed it directly at Claire’s chest.
“Claire, get down!” Vincent roared.
In the same heartbeat, Vincent exploded forward across the desk, his body slamming into Gordon just as the estate manager’s revolver went off.
Crack.
The bullet shattered the glass of the window behind them, showering the floor with glittering shards.
Vincent and Gordon crashed onto the hardwood floor in a tangle of limbs, wrestling for control of the pistol. Gordon slashed out with a heavy brass paperweight he had grabbed from the desk, catching Vincent across the temple and drawing a sharp line of blood down his cheek.
Vincent ignored the pain. He drove his fist into Gordon’s jaw with all the pent-up rage of twenty-two years of stolen history, forged ledgers, and murdered family.
Gordon’s head bounced off the floor with a dull thud. His eyes rolled back, the revolver slipping from his limp fingers and skidding across the rug toward Claire’s bare feet.
Silence rushed back into the room, broken only by the heavy, ragged breathing of Vincent and Claire.
Vincent pushed himself up off the floor, wiping the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. He looked down at Gordon, who was completely unconscious, bleeding from a split lip and a bruised jaw.
Then he looked up at Claire, who was still standing in the doorway, the heavy hunting rifle trembling in her arms like a dry twig.
“Are you hurt?” Vincent asked, his voice rough and uneven.
Claire shook her head slowly, the rifle slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the floorboards. She slid down the doorframe until she was sitting on the rug, her knees pulled up to her chest, and began to cry—not with loud sobs, but with the quiet, helpless weeping of someone whose world had just been violently upended.
Vincent walked over to her, knelt down on one knee despite the blood staining his shirt, and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
“You shouldn't have come up here,” he said softly.
“She... she woke up,” Claire whispered, choking on her tears. “Lily woke up and asked if you were still sad. And I heard the shot... I heard the door... I couldn't just stay in the dark.”
Vincent looked at her for a long, quiet moment. The coldness that had defined his existence for forty-one years—the armor he had worn since the night his father died—finally dissolved into nothingness.
May you like
He reached out and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest as the rain continued to beat against the dark Chicago windows.
“It’s over,” Vincent whispered into her hair. “You’re safe now. Both of you.”
