AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Why? Why would you do that?”
“Because there was no way to keep the fact that you’re a Bishop secret. Too many people knew, including IVI, and we were backed into a corner. Being that Carlton was married and we were cousins, well, the fact that Matty is his son and the rightful heir could have been contested. Monique knew. She knew her husband spent his nights in my bed and turned a blind eye. After the miscarriages she was a wreck anyway.”
Miscarriages. Monique had multiple. I remember Julia telling me about them.
“She was easy to handle,” Julia continues. “Stupid. Like all of Carlton’s wives.”
I feel sick. I always wondered about Monique. But she was just broken. Julia had broken her.
“The miscarriages… Did you…” I can’t say it. Even knowing what I know about her, I can’t say it. Can barely think it.
“Oh, don’t be such an idiot. Matty is the rightful heir. Carlton should have acknowledged him, but he refused. He threatened to cut me off if I did or said anything about us. It’s why he gave Monique the house in France. To shut her up about it. I don’t know why he cared. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with him.” She walks away a few steps, reaches into her back pocket, and takes something out. “Gerald, come here.” She has her back to me, so I don’t see what it is she hands him. “You want the rest of the money? I have it. In cash. In that bag there.”
She points to a small black duffel sitting beside the door. I hadn’t realized she’d brought anything inside. Gerald looks at it too. I watch them. He looks at what she just handed him, then at me, then back to Julia.
“Finish the job, Gerald.”
Gerald steps toward me and I can finally see what he’s holding. A switchblade. Small but sharp. Deadly.
“Finish the job and we can all live happily ever after. Well, not my dear cousin, but the rest of us.”
47
Jericho
I slam the brakes, the car screeching to a halt half on the overgrown lawn in front of Marjorie Gibson’s house. Our arrival won’t be a surprise to those inside. In the distance, I hear the sirens of the police cars Megs called. Two of the guards who were with us at Jones’s house spill out of the backseat, weapons drawn as I rush toward the front door, Zeke at my heels.
I don’t have a pistol. I don’t have any weapon. But I don’t care. I need to get inside. I need to get to Isabelle. Even though Julia was able to lose the tail I had on her, I see Carlton’s Rolls Royce in the driveway. When I get close to the front door, I hear a TV and over that comes Julia Bishop’s voice giving the order to kill my wife.
When I find the door locked, I slam my shoulder against it. It doesn’t give.
“Finish it! Now!” Julia screams. She knows she’s caught. She’s out of options. And that makes her even more dangerous.
“Sir!” One of the men shouts, aiming his pistol at the door handle.
I step away and he fires. The door swings open and I’m inside in an instant. In that same moment, a gunshot rings out, a bullet tearing through my shoulder sending me back a step, two, before I regain my footing.
The man who shot the door open enters, firing his weapon. Isabelle screams.
I push deeper into the house, take in the scene. One man on the ground. Another aiming a pistol at the one who took out their guy. Another of my men shoots his way in from the back of the house, Zeke on his heels. He’s armed. I didn’t know he was armed.
Their soldier takes mine out, a bullet hitting him square in the chest, dropping him. He’s got an automatic weapon and as I run toward Isabelle and Julia, he sends more rounds across the living room where Zeke and the last of my men shoot back.
I crouch down, my shoulder burning. And all I see through the pain and smoke is Isabelle. Isabelle bound to a chair, trapped there, unable to run, to take cover. Gerald Gibson is just a few feet from her. In my periphery, Julia Bishop leaps toward him as I lunge to cover my wife from the onslaught of bullets.
I knock her chair sideways, grunting with the force of it, managing to slide my hand beneath her head before it hits the floor. She cries out and I hear the crunching of bone. See the photos of our baby scattered on this filthy floor as gunshots pock mark the walls.
A banshee like scream comes from Julia as she falls on top of me. I turn to her, see the arc of her arm and raise mine to stop her. She slices the dagger toward Isabelle’s stomach. I twist my body between her and that short, sharp blade to stop her. To stop the repeating of history and instantly feel the burning pain of the knife plunging into my side.
