I kiss Eddie's forehead and he attempts to speak.
"No time, boy,” I say. “Ivan?"
"Not seen him,” Robbie says, urgency in his voice.
“Daddy, I love you!” Eddie says, unable to resist.
But before I can reply, the main door opens. The second thug returns, coffee in hand. A quick glance and he sees me, the boys, and the body. "What?—"
I move, grab his arm, twist the coffee away, scalding liquid splashing his face. He howls. I drive an elbow into his throat, crush the windpipe. He gurgles, drops. I finish with a knee to the temple. Unconscious. Then hands on his head—snap.Done.
Silence, except for the techno still pounding.
Eddie clings to me. "Oh God."
Robbie pales but stays steady. "We have to go."
Eddie pulls back. "I know where Caulfield is. Upstairs. Living room."
I nod. "Show me."
We exit through the side door and hit the narrow service hall, pipes and wiring exposed and a far cry from the polished wealth of the house.
The boys move quick, quiet.
I follow, every step agony—ribs grinding, vision spotting from the head blows—but adrenaline surges. I’m free. But I know that this is far from over.
Eddie glances back. "Are you okay, Daddy?"
"Alive." I manage a grim smile. "Thanks to you and Robbie."
He blushes, but his eyes shine. "We couldn't wait."
The hall ends at stairs. Up we go… slow, listening for footsteps. At the top, a door to the main house.
Robbie peeks. "Clear."
We slip into a grand foyer… marble, chandeliers. Voices from the living room ahead. Caulfield's laugh, oily and confident, is accompanied by the sound of giggling boys. He’s preoccupied, and certainly won’t be expecting to see me. The time to strike is now.
I glance back at the basement door, the bodies below. Those men got lucky—a quick death. Clean. Merciful, even.
Caulfield won't be so lucky.
"Stay here," I whisper to the boys. "Call Alexander. Tell him we're out, and that we’ll need backup to handle Caulfield’s men."
Eddie nods, phone out. Robbie guards the door and fist bumps me as I prepare to face down Caulfield for one final time…
I stalk into the living area like a storm breaking open. The room is vast—high ceilings, white marble floors reflecting the low chandelier light, modern furniture arranged around a massive sectional where Caulfield lounges, surrounded by party boys in glittering dresses.
Laughter dies the moment I step through the archway.
Glasses freeze mid-sip.
Eyes widen.
Caulfield is in the center, legs crossed, drink in hand, mid-sentence. He sees me and the color drains from his face. The gun on the table beside him is suddenly the most important thing in the room.
A security thug lunges from the side. “Stop!”
