You just couldn’t get reliable help anymore.
31
11:59 p.m.
3202 Fernway Road, Mountain Brook
Drake Estate
Senator Randolph Drake dropped the receiver back into its cradle. She would never let it go with a simple phone call. She would demand that face-to-face showdown.
He should have anticipated that. He had not.
She was far more resourceful than he had realized.
Far more determined.
Deep down he had known she would never cooperate, even when faced with her own downfall.
No, she was made of sturdier stuff than that.
Forged in fire, that one.
He had hoped she would disappear. Take her money and run.
But she had surprised him.
He reached for a cigar, clipped it, then lit the tip. He savored the taste, considered a nice Scotch or perhaps bourbon.
Not now. He would need to attend to this fully before allowing the indulgence. Things were getting too out of hand. Steps had to be taken to end this once and for all. The knob on the door of his study turned.
That hadn’t taken long. She must have been very close when she had called.
Damned ballsy of her to come to his home and walk in uninvited. Thankfully, he was alone. He had dismissed the household staff early tonight and his wife had gone to bed as soon as they arrived home from the Newton Ball.
Very well. The sooner this business was finished, the better.
The door opened and he looked up. The identity of his visitor startled him.
“I want this to end.”
He blinked, confused. What in the world? His gaze dropped from hers to the gun in her hand.A gun?
“What are you doing?” He started to push out of his chair, but the weapon waved threateningly. He frowned, couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the reality of what his eyes were seeing. Then he understood.She knows.“You understand what has to be done,” he explained patiently. “It’s the only way.”
“You swore you wouldn’t let this happen again.” The business end of the weapon leveled on him. “But you lied.”
He shook his head, held out his hands imploringly. “You mustn’t interfere. You have to trust me.”
“No.”
He saw the movement—a ruthless finger depressed the trigger. He felt the impact of the bullet as it tore into the center of his chest.
He stared down at the round hole in the starched white shirt he wore. Watched the blood pulsing forth.
Funny, he hadn’t heard the explosion of the bullet bursting from the barrel. What was that old saying from his military days?
If you don’t hear the shot, you’re dead already.
