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It happened so fucking fast. Between one half-second and the next, a bullet carved its way through his body. Between one heartbeat and the next, he went down.
I wasn’t ready.
He wasn’t ready.
I could see it on his face. Right up until the moment Niles D’Amato squeezed the trigger, Hollowell still thought he could talk his way out of this. That all the bluffing and the mind games and manipulation he was so good at could turn this around, could buy him one more free pass out of facing the consequences of his actions.
But his free passes have run out.
There’s a sharp wheezing sound in my ears that I only vaguely realize is the sounds of me trying to suck air into lungs that are closing up, tightening painfully.
Niles nudges Hollowell with his shoe, looking down at the angled body with disgust. “Goddamn you.”
Then, as if that’s all the benediction the man deserves, the tall man lifts his head, his demeanor changing entirely, as if his anger at Hollowell evaporated in the same moment the bullet pierced his chest.
“This was not how I planned on spending my fucking day,” he tells Mitch, shaking his head as he squats down next to Hollowell’s still form. He tucks his gun away and holds out his hand. “Gimme your piece.”
Mitch pulls his weapon out from where he tucked it in the waistband of his pants and hands it over.
Niles wipes the dark metal of the gun with a small cloth he pulls from his pocket, then grabs Hollowell’s limp right hand and wraps it around the grip, pressing each finger lightly against the metal to leave a clear print.
He rises to his feet and returns the gun to Mitch, jerking his head in our direction. “Now them.”
I feel Chase stiffen beside me, and Linc makes a noise low in his throat. The three men in the living room with us all relaxed the second Hollowell went down, and now one of them steps forward, looking at Niles expectantly.
Their boss flicks his attention to us, and I see… nothing in his eyes. His gaze travels over me the same way it might move over the stuffed fox by the mantel—with mild interest but no compassion at all.
“Get ’em up. Spread ’em out. It needs to look like a home invasion gone wrong, not an execution.” He turns to Mitch, who holds the nine millimeter loosely in his hand. “Don’t make any of the shots too clean. Make it look like a scuffle broke out.”
“Yup.”
The burly man nods once, then steps into the foyer as the other three men haul us to our feet. I’m shoved roughly into a corner of the living room next to Linc, and he puts his body in front of mine as if he’s trying to shield me.
No. No. No.
My hand is shaking as I reach for him, but before my fingers can brush his arm, the man who dragged us here steps back, raising a hand to gesture Mitch over even as he addresses us.
“Spread out. More space between you.”
Linc growls again, and I think he’s about to launch himself at the man. But he can’t. He can’t. Death can come so fast and so decisively, but I’m not ready for it yet. Please, please, God, not yet.
Taking the decision out of Linc’s hands, I move two steps to my right, separating our bodies a bit. I can see Niles’s other men arranging the rest of the kings around the room, spacing them out so the cops won’t find us all on a line in the couch with bullet holes in our heads.
Niles has already moved on from all of this. He’s got his phone out and begins speaking to someone on the other end in a low voice as Mitch strides over to us. Even though a foot and a half of space separates us, I can feel Linc’s entire body tense, and I know he won’t let them do this easily.
I also know I can’t let him die.
We need an opening.
Just a little window of time.
Anything.
When Mitch stops in front of us, he aims the gun at Linc first, and I hear Chase start to yell something across the room.
“No! You son of a—”
Now. Now!
