By this time tomorrow, that dog will be put down.
A knock on our office door draws our attention back to the here and now. We’re not expecting any visitors, and our men should all be too busy to interrupt us.
“Yes, Percy?”
“Don Matteo, Don Aron, John Brown has business with you.”
Matt stiffens in my arms, and my blood runs cold.
There’s no John Brown in the Syndicate.
John Brown is code for an enemy at the door. It’s a common enough name to avoid rousing suspicion if used but one that will instantly alert any Syndicate member of potential danger.
We draw our guns simultaneously and stand on either side of the door. “Send him in,’’ I say on Matt’s signal.
The door inches open, and Percy shuffles in. His gait is off, but it’s not until he’s far enough in for us to see the delicate hand holding a knife at his back that we understand what’s happening.
Despite having top-notch security measures in place, Emily got in.
“Hello, husband!” she chirps as she forces Percy farther through the doorway. “You sure do make it difficult for your wife to visit you at work.”
Beneath the blood-drenched raincoat she wears, a layer of crusty blood covers her face and neck. Likely she hasn’t bathed since she murdered Enzo. His blood is so caked on that not even the torrential downpour outside could wash it from her skin. Hercoat, however, has only fresh blood on it, meaning she has killed some of our men on her way into the mansion.
“Hey, there, sis. Come to borrow our shower?”
Emily scowls at Matt, her blue eyes blazing through the mask of blood. “I’m here for my husband, brother mine. I have no use for you at the moment.”
Poor Percy is rigid, drenched in sweat, his eyes wide in terror.
“Emily,” I say, hoping to distract her, “he got you in where you wanted. Maybe you could take the knife away. Matt and I are effectively a captive audience now.”
“Hmm …” She taps her chin with her free hand. “Perhaps, but what if I want the whole Syndicate’s attention? The dozen dead guards might be a good start, sure, but maybe what I need is a solid thirteen.”
Matt keeps the barrel of his gun trained on Emily as she fully enters the room. We each give her a wide berth, as we don’t want to startle her into harming Percy.
“Are you counting Enzo in your dozen?”
Matt’s question is a valid one. If she’s fixated on killing thirteen men, maybe she’ll let Percy go.
The tip of the knife pushes harder against Percy’s back, and a small blossom of red forms around it. Emily broke the skin, but she hasn’t seriously hurt him yet. That could change in a nanosecond, though.
“Enzo wasn’t even the first Syndicate guard I killed,” she hisses. “But that was before; this is today. The count resets.”
That is disturbing. When this is over, we’ll have to go back over the roster and see if anyone has gone missing recently that we can attribute to Emily.
“Honey …” I start by using an old nickname from the days when I thought our marriage was legitimate. “I think you havethe Syndicate’s undivided attention right now. There’s no need to add to the body count.”
Emily grabs Percy by his throat and flicks the tip of the knife, flinging blood across the room and slicing open Percy’s shirt and back. Percy cries out, but we can’t safely step in to help yet. “Don’t talk to me about body count, Aron. I have always been faithful to you. Always. Even before we met.”
Fighting back the surge of nausea that every time our marriage is mentioned, I take a cautious step towards them.
“Emily—”
“Shut the fucking door, Aron!”
She’s getting agitated. This is bad.
Matt kicks the door closed then steps back from Emily and her hostage.
