I’VE BEEN SHOT.
That was Sebastian’s only thought as he sank through the cool blue water belonging, ironically, to the very same pool where he had taught Paul to swim. He had played with him in this pool, had thrown Paul and his friends into the air in this pool when they were little, and that boy had grown into an adult monster that had given a hand signal to the person aiming the rifle from the neighbor’s bedroom window.
But he had been shot in the chest, not the head, and here came the question riding on the throbbing waves of pain: had the round penetrated the thin, light bulletproof vest he wore every day? It sure as hell felt like it had.
How much blood am I losing?
How much time do I have before I get light-headed and pass out and bleed to death?
Don’t let that prick win.
Sebastian could no longer hold his breath. His body ignored his brain’s order not to breathe and he found himself trying to inhale the water—not the brightest idea, since he wasn’t a goddamn fish. He pushed himself off the bottom of the pool and kicked and thrashed his way to the surface. The moment he felt the air hit his face, he tried to breathe, and his lungs and body revolted. He vomited up pool water and the digested remnants of the Coke and chicken salad sandwich he’d had for lunch. His loafers couldn’t find purchase on the slick bottom of the pool and he flailed about wildly in the water, his chest on fire and the pool steps directly in front of him, ten or so feet away.
His brain was locked in survival mode, and it screamed, Sniper could still be in the window, and don’t forget about Paul—where’s Paul?
A couple of quick glances revealed that Paul wasn’t in the backyard or near the driveway or anywhere else. Where the hell was he? As for the sniper, Sebastian didn’t bother to look as he swam madly toward the steps—although what he was doing wasn’t really swimming but more like stumbling through water and thrashing his limbs as he tried to suck in air between gagging, coughing, and heaving. Keep moving, he told himself. It’s hard to shoot a moving target, so keep moving if you want to live.
Moving, though, was the problem. Moving through water was like moving in slow motion, which made him an easy target. Still, he kept at it, limbs flailing. He gagged on water and, he was certain, blood. He didn’t stop to check, just kept moving, the adrenaline, he knew, keeping him alive for the moment.
Sebastian’s hands found purchase on the pool steps. He crawled up them, but when he went to stand his legs gave out and he collapsed sideways against the ground. The sliding glass door off the kitchen was less than twenty feet away. Get to that now.
By some miracle combination of adrenaline and sheer will he managed to get back on his feet and then staggered to the sliding glass door, which was unlocked because Paul had come out through it earlier, with the crystal highball glasses.
Sebastian’s destination was his office. He slipped, slid, and skidded his way across the living room’s hardwood floor, splashing and dripping water along the way, then moved through the immense kitchen, with its tiled floor and gleaming white surfaces, using the furniture and walls for support. He kept glancing over his shoulder, half expecting to see Paul behind him, coming to finish the job.
Down the foyer, and finally there was the door to his office. He stumbled inside and slammed the door shut. When he threw the dead bolt, his legs fluttered in relief or fear or maybe both; whatever the reason, he collapsed against the cold tile floor, wet and shivering—and safe. Paul couldn’t get in here. The door had a steel core and two strike plates—no way Paul could kick it down. The pair of windows overlooking the front yard were made of bulletproof glass—no way the sick prick could shoot his way in, either.
Sebastian was no longer gagging but it still hurt like a mad bastard every single time he drew a breath. He managed to get his tie and suit jacket off, but unbuttoning his shirt was another matter; his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, his fingers unable to hold on to the buttons. Screw it. He ripped his shirt open, buttons flying everywhere, and with a quick and silent prayer looked down at his chest.
At Frank’s urging, Sebastian had purchased a bulletproof vest—a sad statement on the world they now lived in. Frank had picked out one that, according to the website, was designed with a gel that worked in conjunction with carbon nanofibers, which resulted in a vest that guaranteed police-level protection from any round on the market, without the weight and bulk.
It seemed the claim wasn’t marketing bullshit. Sebastian was pleased to report that he didn’t see any blood, just a mark on the fabric where the round had struck him.
Maybe I’ll go online and leave a review, Sebastian thought, and was overcome with a fit of giggling. His body put a stop to that when his ribs howled in protest. Must have cracked one—probably a whole bunch of them. He undid the Velcro straps and pulled away the thin fabric to examine his skin. He had one hell of a welt, and it was located on the right part of his chest—directly opposite from his heart. The shooter had been aiming for it when Sebastian turned at the last second.
Only a trained marksman could have managed such a shot from such a distance. Had Paul hired one of his Marine buddies? How many people did Paul have working for him?
Sebastian collapsed against the floor. He turned onto his side and waited for the pain to quiet down, lose its bite.
Trixie had decorated his office—picked out all the furniture, the big walnut desk and matching bookcases and leather sofa and club chair and, leaning against the corner wall, the large standing mirror. Sebastian saw himself in the office now, soaking wet and curled up on the floor. It shamed him, seeing himself this way, looking like the scared little boy who had once curled into a ball and wanted to scream and cry at being sentenced to life in prison for a crime—
You’re alive, an inner voice said. It was the voice of his Higher Power—his higher self. Focus on that.
Yes. That was the main thing, the takeaway: he was alive and, for the moment, safe from Paul. Paul, who had outsmarted him. Paul, who wanted to control his blood business, where the kids were safe and well treated, turn it all into a horror show where he would rape and impregnate his female carriers in order to harvest their blood. Sebastian had to prevent that.
But first, the police. Were they already on their way here? The rifle shot hadn’t been that loud, which suggested the use of a silencer. That made sense; Paul wouldn’t have wanted to draw any unnecessary attention to the gunman—or himself. The two of them had needed to leave as quickly and quietly as possible. Still, the report could have been loud enough for someone to pick up the phone and call the police about a possible gunshot. And since Sebastian lived in Whitey Town, the police would be lightning quick.
He saw his suit jacket lying in a wet ball on the floor and patted down the fabric until he found his phone. He had never met any electronic device that enjoyed swimming, but he was hoping this case would prove an exception.
It didn’t. His smartphone was dead.
The safe. He had a couple of brand-new burners stored inside the wall safe, along with passports, IDs, and cash. He got to his feet too quickly and doubled over in pain so debilitating, his legs came dangerously close to buckling. Again he used the wall and furniture for support as he shuffled his way to the other side of the room and opened the closet door. He turned on the light, pushed aside his winter jackets, and faced the safe, an old-fashioned model with a rotary dial. Digital safes were notoriously easy to hack.
The burners were in there, sitting on top of neatly wrapped bundles of cash—fifty grand in total. For a brief moment he had the urge to throw everything in a duffel bag and then get the hell out of Dodge, live somewhere on a Caribbean island until he died of cirrhosis of the liver or skin cancer, whichever came first. The fantasy—and that was all it was and would ever be—quickly scattered like a puff of smoke.
Three rings, and then Frank’s calm and even voice spoke on the other end of the line: “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Why you calling me from this—” Frank cut himself off. Then, concerned, his voice lower: “Why are you out of breath? There a problem?”
“Yeah,” Sebastian said, his voice pinched tight, “you might say that.”