Chapter 7 - The Hostage
The acrid smoke burned my eyes and throat, sending me into a violent fit of coughing.
Larkin drew his weapon immediately, firing two blind shots into the thick haze.
One of the mercenaries dropped, but Thomas moved with cowardly speed, diving behind a heavy oak bookshelf.
Before Larkin could realign his sights, a heavy arm wrapped tightly around my neck from behind.
I was yanked backward, a cold metal barrel pressing painfully against my temple.
Thomas ripped the gas mask off his face, coughing, but smiling like a total psychopath.
He used my body as a human shield, dragging me toward the shattered window.
Larkin stopped in his tracks, his gun aimed steadily at his cousin's head, but unable to take the shot without hitting me.
Thomas laughed, a hysterical, broken sound that echoed through the ruined study.
He shouted that he was tired of living in Larkin's shadow and playing second best to a corporate spreadsheet manager.
He confessed that he had hired the FBI informant to crash the party, creating the perfect distraction to steal the Russian money.
Larkin’s voice was dangerously calm as he ordered Thomas to let me go.
Thomas tightened his grip, completely cutting off my air supply.
He looked at Larkin with pure, unadulterated venom.
Thomas asked me if Larkin had ever told me the real reason I was hired three years ago.
I clawed desperately at his arm, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.
Thomas gleefully revealed that Larkin's father was the man who had murdered my father a decade ago to cover up a union embezzlement scheme.
He said Larkin had stalked me and hired me out of some twisted, pathetic sense of guilt.
The revelation hit me harder than a physical blow, shattering everything I thought I knew about my life.
I looked at Larkin through the smoke, begging him silently to deny it.
Larkin slowly lowered his weapon, his silence providing the most devastating answer possible.
May you like
He had known exactly who I was since the very first day.
Thomas grinned, cocking the hammer of the gun pressed against my head.
