Chapter 8 - The Will Written in Red
CRACK!
The syringe in the doctor’s hand exploded into glass dust.
The doctor shrieked, clutching his shredded fingers as blood sprayed across the
concrete floor.
"WHAT THE HELL?!" Salvatore Moretti roared, drawing a silver pistol from his
wool coat.
"GHOST!" Celeste screamed, stumbling backward. "HE'S DEAD! HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE
DEAD!"
Richard stepped out from the shadows into the harsh glare of the work lamp.
He didn't seek cover.
He walked forward like death incarnate, firing in steady, rhythmic bursts.
The two bodyguards on the left collapsed before they could clear their holsters.
The third guard dove behind a forklift, spraying blind automatic fire into the
darkness.
"Naomi! Flank right!" Richard commanded over the deafening noise.
I bolted low behind a row of wooden pallets.
Bullets chewed through the wood, splinters slicing across my cheeks.
Adrenaline burned away the pain in my hand.
I saw the guard behind the forklift aiming at Richard’s exposed back.
I raised the heavy revolver.
I planted my feet.
I squeezed the trigger.
The shot thundered through the warehouse.
The guard took the bullet in the spine and slumped across the forklift steering
wheel, his horn blaring a continuous, dying wail.
Moretti was scrambling toward the rear water exit where a speedboat bobbed
against the wooden pylons.
"Celeste, grab the papers!" Moretti yelled.
Celeste lunged toward the table where the transfer deed lay.
She snatched the documents.
Then she looked at Teresa.
A look of pure, psychotic spite twisted Celeste’s beautiful face.
She pulled a slim snub-nosed revolver from her trench coat.
She pointed it directly at Teresa’s forehead.
"If I don't get the shipping lanes, you don't get your mother!" Celeste
shrieked.
Time slowed to a crawling crawl.
Richard’s rifle clicked empty.
His sidearm was jammed from concrete grit.
He was forty feet away.
Too far.
"CELESTE!" Richard roared, lunging forward with desperate speed.
Celeste’s finger tightened on the trigger.
I dropped my empty revolver.
I grabbed a heavy steel crowbar lying by the pallet.
I didn't think about my mortgage.
I didn't think about my job.
I thought of my son, and the woman who had protected him from behind a mansion
door.
May you like
I hurled myself across the floor, driving the jagged point of the iron crowbar
straight into Celeste’s right shoulder.
