Chapter 32
KANE
Iwas processing everything in rapid, fragmentary detail, my tactical brain automatically cataloging information even as adrenaline sharpened every sense to painful clarity.
The way Randy's lips moved when he spoke directly to Ella. Tight. Twitching visibly at the corners. Like the words physically hurt forcing their way out but he couldn't stop the compulsive need to make her understand, anyway.
The way he held the gun pressed against Sabine's small head. Amateur grip, fingers wrapped wrong. Pressure too tight on the trigger. Whole hand shaking with uncontrolled emotion instead of steady, deliberate intent.
Dangerous. Unpredictable. Volatile in the worst possible way.
The way he couldn't stop talking specifically to Ella, ignoring me almost entirely. Needing her to witness his pain. To validate that he was actually the victim in this entire situation. To confirm his justified rage.
I knew exactly what I should've done the second I'd entered this room and seen him holding that weapon.
Shot him on sight. Instant threat elimination without hesitation.
That was the easy tactical decision. The clean operational choice.
Center mass. Target down. Situation resolved in under two seconds.
But Sabine had been sitting right there on the floor.
I didn't want her to watch a man die violently in front of her young eyes. Didn't want a five-year-old child's developing brain forming permanent traumatic memories of that specific kind of violence.
God forbid she actually got physically splattered with blood and brain matter and bone fragments when the round exited.
So, I'd hesitated deliberately. Waited for a better opening. Tried to find another solution that didn't involve killing someone in front of a kindergartener.
And now Randy had Sabine gripped tightly in his grasp with a loaded gun pressed directly to her fragile head.
Consequences of mercy.
It was still technically an easy shot from my current position.
So easy. So close. Maybe eight feet maximum.
Literal child's play for someone with my training and extensive experience.
Except there was literally a child directly involved whose life depended on absolutely perfect execution.
And that innocent child currently had a weapon pressed against her temple by a very sick man whose hand was shaking with rage and grief and complete mental breakdown.
All this might not have been Randy's fault originally—Rose's elaborate lies, the secret double life, the betrayal that had clearly shattered him.
But what was happening right now, in this moment, was absolutely, unquestionably his fault.
His choice. His violence. His responsibility.
And right now was all that actually mattered anymore.
The world got very small for me in moments like this, the way it always did.
Tunnel vision setting in hard and automatic, trained response.
I could still hear voices around me—Randy demanding answers in that tight, breaking voice, Ella trying desperately to placate him and buy precious time—but they sounded increasingly distant and muffled.
Like I was underwater and they were calling from the surface.
My entire focus narrowed down to a single critical point.
The gun trembling in Randy's hand.
I watched his fingers with absolute, unwavering concentration. Flexing against the grip when emotion spiked. Then relaxing slightly, pressure releasing, as he focused on talking instead. Then tightening again dangerously when something Ella said triggered fresh rage.
Reading the micro-movements. The unconscious tells. The patterns.
I had to time this absolutely perfectly. Precisely. No margin for error.
One wrong move, one tiny miscalculation, and that trigger would pull reflexively.
And Sabine would die instantly.
Randy said something loud and sharp and enraged about something Ella had said or carefully not said.
Spittle flying from his mouth with the force of the words.
I shifted my weight forward smoothly onto the balls of my feet, muscles coiling like springs, about to make my carefully calculated move.
Split seconds.
Everything happening in tiny measured fractions of time.
Then the distinctive double spit of a suppressed weapon sounded clearly from the doorway directly behind me.
Thwip-thwip.
Two shots in rapid, controlled succession.
Professional. Practiced. Perfect.
Everything immediately shifted into that strange slow-motion effect that happens in actual combat situations.
So slow I could count individual heartbeats thudding hard in my chest.
Could see individual details with crystalline clarity.
Surprise bloomed in Randy's wild, bloodshot eyes first—confusion, brain not understanding yet what had just happened to him.
Then two small dark dots appeared on his forehead in absolutely perfect placement.
Kill shots. Instant death.
No suffering. Just off.
The gun fell from his suddenly slack hand, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull metallic thud.
His knees buckled as brain function ceased.
I was already reacting on pure instinct, already moving forward fast to grab Sabine before she could fall with the collapsing body or see anything she shouldn't.
But another form was somehow faster than me.
Someone who'd come into the room with a running start from the hallway, momentum already built up.
Someone with graying hair and absolutely perfect military posture maintained even in rapid motion.
Ellsworth.
Fucking Ellsworth.
He executed the next series of movements with precise balletic grace.
Kicked Randy's fallen gun away hard across the floor with one precise boot strike while simultaneously scooping Sabine up protectively with his other arm in one fluid motion.
Two objectives completed in under a second.
And just like that, with the practiced professional grace of someone who'd done exactly this kind of thing many times before in other circumstances, he immediately shielded the little girl's eyes from the death and violence in the room.
Turned her small face gently but very firmly into his shoulder so she physically couldn't see what had just happened behind her.
Wrapped his free arm supportively around Ella's trembling shoulders as he carefully transferred Sabine's weight into her desperately waiting arms.
Winked at me once with dry British humor despite the circumstances.
Then walked calmly into the living room like absolutely nothing unusual or violent had just occurred.
Just a butler efficiently tidying up an unpleasant mess before tea.
Professional. Unshakeable.
Me and dead Randy were the only ones left in the bedroom now.
I stood there for a long moment, just taking it all in with strange detachment.
The body crumpled on the floor in an awkward heap. The blood already pooling dark. The profound stillness of death.
I was so grateful in that moment it almost hurt.
So fucking grateful this hadn't been my violent past coming back to bite me after all.
Hadn't been Consortium Prime making good on their threats to send a message.
Just a sick man who couldn't handle losing control of what he thought he owned. Couldn't let go of the narrative he'd built.
Couldn't accept that Rose had chosen something else. Someone else.
I approached Randy's body carefully, anyway, years of thorough training making me verify.
Checked for a pulse even though I already knew with absolute certainty.
Really dead. Two perfect shots to the frontal lobe. Lights out.
Ellsworth had definitely done this specific thing before. Many, many times across decades.
I picked up the discarded gun from where Ellsworth had kicked it across the room, unloaded it, and tucked it securely into my coat pocket.
Then I paused in the doorway, looking back at the scene one final time.
Taking it in. Processing what had happened. Letting the adrenaline start to drain.
Paris.
Fucking Paris.
It had been quite the trip so far.
And somehow, I suspected it wasn't over yet.