Chapter 9 - Blood on the Marble
Eleanor dumped the canvas bag of evidence onto the kitchen island. She walked straight to the heavy butcher block and drew an eight-inch carbon-steel boning knife in one hand and a heavy iron meat mallet in the other.
"Leo," she said, her voice steady in the pitch black. "How many guns in the house?"
"Dad kept a safe in the study, but Marcus changed the codes last month," I answered, my heart pounding like a machine gun against my ribs. "There's only my hunting shotgun in the mudroom closet."
"Get it," she ordered. "Julian, stay with Toby in the armory! Barricade the door with the heavy dresser!"
I raced to the mudroom, smashed the glass of the gun cabinet, and pulled out the 12-gauge Remington shotgun. I grabbed a box of double-ought buckshot from the top shelf, loading four red shells into the tubular magazine with trembling, bloody fingers.
*CRASH.*
The French doors leading to the courtyard patio shattered into a thousand glittering shards.
Two men in black tactical gear stepped through the frame, laser sights cutting red lines through the darkness.
"Upstairs first," one growled. "The boss wants the kids quiet."
They didn't see Eleanor.
She emerged from the pantry shadows like a phantom. Before the first guard could swing his rifle, Eleanor drove the meat mallet straight into the side of his knee with the sickening crunch of breaking bone. He collapsed with a scream, and Eleanor swept his rifle out of his grip, kicking it across the marble toward me.
The second guard whirled around, raising his handgun point-blank toward Eleanor’s chest.
"Freeze!" I roared, stepping into the hallway, leveling the shotgun directly at his chest.
The guard paused, seeing a seventeen-year-old kid covered in sweat and blood, his hands shaking on the pump. A cruel smile spread across his face. "You don't have the stomach for it, little boy."
He began to squeeze the trigger.
I didn't hesitate. I pulled the trigger.
The thunderous roar of the 12-gauge deafened the room. The blast caught the guard square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward through the shattered remains of the French doors onto the snowy patio.
The recoil drove the buttstock hard into my fractured ribs. The agony was blinding; black spots danced across my vision and I fell to one knee, coughing blood onto the floor.
"Leo!" Eleanor dropped to my side, grabbing my face. "Stay with me! Don't you dare close your eyes!"
Slow, rhythmic clapping echoed from the darkness of the grand foyer.
We both looked up.
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Marcus Vane stood at the foot of the sweeping staircase. He held a customized Beretta with a silencer attached. His eyes were cold, dead, and entirely devoid of mercy.
"Bravo," Marcus whispered, stepping over the broken glass. "Truly impressive, Eleanor. You lasted longer than the other four housekeepers. But this is where your contract ends."
