Chapter 3 - The Art of the Gamble
The barrel of Camille’s Walther PPK didn't waver a fraction of an inch.
She held the stance of a professional—feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced forward, eyes locked dead on the center of Declan’s chest. The woman standing before him bore no resemblance to the fragile college professor he had married in a quiet ceremony outside Boston twelve years ago. This was an apex predator who had spent years studying his every twitch, every tactical habit, and every blind spot.
“You think it’s that easy?” Declan asked, his voice dropping an octave into a low, gravelly register that had once made rival capos wet themselves. The shock was burning away, replaced by the cold, lethal clarity of a man who had survived a dozen assassination attempts.
Camille tilted her head, her dark waves catching the warm yellow light of the bedside lamp. “Easy? No, Declan. Thorough. I’ve spent twenty-four months making sure every single contingency is covered. The security logs have been scrubbed by an independent proxy in Estonia. The perimeter cameras are looping footage from three hours ago. Even if someone finds your body in the bay tomorrow, the police reports will show that your depressive episodes finally caught up with you.”
On the floor, Tessa whimpered, curling into a tight ball with her hands over her ears.
Declan didn’t look down at her. His eyes remained fixed on his wife. His right hand still gripped his Sig Sauer inside his waistband, resting against the small of his back, shielded from Camille’s direct line of sight by the heavy folds of his wet suit jacket.
“You missed one thing, Camille,” Declan said evenly, taking a slow half-step forward.
Camille’s eyes narrowed, the Walther tightening in her grip. “Stop right there. Don’t test me.”
“You forgot who taught you how to clean a crime scene,” Declan replied, his tone chillingly calm. “You spent five years watching me, yes. But you never sat across the table when the blood was actually spraying. You never learned how a man reacts when he realizes he’s already dead.”
Before Camille could pull the trigger, Declan didn’t lunge forward—he dropped straight to the floor, rolling hard to the left behind a heavy mahogany credenza as a bullet punched a jagged, splintering hole through the wall plaster right where his head had been a microsecond earlier.
Bang!
The gunshot roared through the master suite like thunder in a shoebox. Plaster dust rained down. Tessa shrieked, pressing her face flat against the Persian rug.
Declan came up on one knee, his Sig Sauer clearing his waistband with blinding speed. He didn’t aim for Camille’s chest; he fired low, shattering the ornate glass lamp on the bedside table. Darkness swallowed half the room in an instant, plunging the space into deep, shifting shadows cast only by the amber glow of the hallway light.
“Damn you!” Camille’s voice hissed from the darkness near the walk-in closet, followed by the rapid-fire clack-clack of two more rounds chewing into the wood of the credenza inches from Declan’s face.
Declan didn’t hesitate. He scrambled sideways, sliding across the slick hardwood floor beneath the bed frame, coming up on the opposite side near the open balcony doors. Rain sheeted down outside, blowing cool, damp air into the suffocating room.
“It’s over, Camille!” Declan called out into the shadows, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “The entire syndicate knows I went home early today. If I don't check in with my capo by five o'clock, fifty men will tear this house apart brick by brick! Your Estonian proxy won't save you when my crew finds your passport stashed in that safe!”
A tense, suffocating silence fell over the bedroom. The only sound was the heavy drumming of Seattle rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass and Tessa’s ragged, terrified breathing.
May you like
Declan crouched low beside the balcony curtains, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He scanned the shadows, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.
Then, a soft click came from the direction of the private en-suite bathroom door.
