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No one is there.
“Hello?”
Something catches his attention. To the left is a small stone patio with a comfortable lawn chair where he has read and napped during his days here. In the soft light from the villa windows, he sees that Gregor is resting there, looking at the front door.
“Gregor?”
No reply.
He walks over, his hands and feet growing chilled.
Gregor is dead.
Blood is dripping from his body onto the stone patio.
Closer now, and he sees the former Russian commando’s throat has been cut.
Pinned to Gregor’s yellow polo shirt is a note with large lettering:
RASHAD, YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED HOME. REGARDS FROM OLLIE DAVIES.
He turns and runs back into the villa, slams and locks the door behind him, then runs to where the phone is located, near the dining room, intending to call for help.
And one by one, the lights inside the villa begin to wink out.
