Chapter 34
Mark pushed through the door of the gun shop like he owned the place, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with purpose. The walls were lined with weapons—polished black metal, matte gray, burnished wood. All of them gleamed like promises.
His hands twitched. He wanted to grab the first pistol he saw, tear it off the wall and shove it down the front of his pants. The fantasy of walking out fully armed, powerful again, surged through him. His pulse throbbed in his ears with the idea of turning the tables.
But security cameras were everywhere. Always watching.
Always judging. So instead, he stuffed his hands into his pockets—only to remember one of them had a hole.
His fingers brushed against himself and he chuckled darkly.
The thought of fondling his own balls while shopping for a murder weapon?
That kind of irony made him giddy. Almost giddy enough to laugh out loud. But again—cameras.
Discretion.
He’d play nice. For now.
A clerk approached. Clean-cut, polite, the kind of guy who probably went to church every Sunday.
“What can I help you with, sir?” the man asked, hands braced on the glass counter.
Mark straightened, puffing out his chest. “I need a pistol.”
The clerk nodded slowly, just enough hesitation in his expression to suggest he’d heard those words from the wrong kind of men before. “A man needs to protect his home and family.”
Mark snorted under his breath. Family? His wife was a cold, frigid drain on his resources who hadn’t spread her legs in months. Not without conditions, anyway. And always with complaints. Her nagging, her judgment, her disgusting superiority—he was sick of it. She was dead weight.
Jemma had been the same way in the end. Cold. Disrespectful. She’d pretended to be sweet, attentive, loyal. But she’d been taking notes. Plotting. Stealing his life out from under him.
He didn’t need a family. He needed control.
“I don’t know much about pistols,” Mark admitted. Lie. “I’m taking a class next week with a guy out in the country.” Another lie. “Didn’t tell me what size to get.”
The salesman’s gaze flicked over him again. Suspicious. Evaluating.
But then he nodded and turned to the wall of weapons behind him, lifting a sleek black model from its mount. “This one has a good grip. Light recoil. Holds fifteen rounds. Good for someone just starting out.”
Mark barely listened. His gaze was fixed on the weapon. Sleek. Deadly. So much potential in such a small thing.
He asked a few questions—just enough to sound like a man thinking about safety, not revenge.
The clerk answered, demonstrating the slide, talking about magazines and cleaning kits. Mark smiled, but behind the smile was fire. Rage. This one, he thought. This one will do just fine.
“I’ll take that one,” he said, tapping the glass. Fifteen bullets. Fifteen chances to rewrite the narrative. Not that he needed that many. One would do. Right between the eyes.
He was practically trembling with anticipation when the clerk set the gun aside—and then slid a form across the counter.
“That’s great, sir. If you could fill this out, we’ll get the background check going.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed on the form with disgust. “What the hell is this?”
“Background check,” the clerk said, calm and measured. “Standard federal requirement. Instant, in most cases. If something flags, the FBI has up to three days to respond. If they don’t, we’re authorized to complete the sale.”
Instant panic flared in Mark’s chest, but he forced a smirk.
“Unless there’s something to worry about,” the clerk added carefully, eyes watching too closely.
Mark clenched his jaw. The DUIs. The public intoxication charges. The restraining order filed years ago by his old assistant—God, what was her name? Didn’t matter. The bitch had lied.
Would those show up?
He didn’t want to risk it.
Just for a second, he fantasized about grabbing the gun and bolting. But he didn’t have bullets yet. What good was a cold hunk of metal if he couldn’t make it scream?
“I don’t want the government sniffing through my life,” he sneered, backing away from the counter. “Forget it.”
The clerk watched him turn and stride out the door. As Mark reached his car, he didn’t see the man move to the front window, pull out his phone, and silently jot down the license plate.
By the time Mark’s engine turned over, the FBI had already received a tip.
Back in his suburban home—too clean, too sterile, too full of his wife’s expensive taste—Mark stormed into his office and slammed the door. He didn’t respond when she shrieked from the kitchen. What would she do if someone broke in? Nag the burglar into submission?
Worthless.
He sat down at his computer and started typing furiously, digging into Pennsylvania’s gun laws. He ignored the sound of his wife leaving—garage door, ignition, silence. Probably off to blow more of his money on shoes she didn’t deserve.
But now he had a new plan.
Private sales.
No background checks. No government oversight. Just cash. He’d find some backwoods redneck with a few unregistered pieces he was willing to part with for the right price.
It was time to take back what was his. Jemma had stolen everything. His company. His dignity. His legacy.
And Mark? Mark was going to make sure her last mistake was thinking she could win.