Damian’s Story (cont.)
Gross climbed from his bath, slipped on his silk kimono, hurried through to his bedroom and removed his Wilson Combat Supergrade Classic from his desk. Although an expensive handgun, many enthusiasts believed it was one of the most beautiful sidearms on the market. Gross’s was a stainless-steel slide and frame model with a wood-grain grip. At just under nine inches long, it wasn’t the most compact pistol available, but it consistently scored five stars in terms of accuracy, so for a non-shooter like Gross, who wanted aesthetic excellence as well as efficiency and reliability, it had been the obvious choice.
He gripped it in his right hand, slipped the safety to off and curled his index finger around its skeletonised trigger. He should have felt better. Safer. Instead, his stomach lurched. He was holding forty-five ounces of hardware and every last one weighed heavy. A reminder that he was facing a real, physical situation that no amount of lawyering up or buying off could resolve. This was him versus whoever had entered his home and the usually confident millionaire suddenly had a dry mouth and wet palms.
He edged onto his landing. Looked down across the reception area. Still. Quiet.
‘Dugdale!’ he shouted. ‘Dugdale, for fuck’s sake!’
He inched along the landing towards the stairs, muttering to himself, ‘That prick is so fired in the morning . . .’
He reached the top of the stairs.
‘What the fuck do I pay him for?’
Gross looked down and saw something that made his heart beat even harder.
The handle of the front door dipped. Someone was trying to enter.
He raised his sidearm, expecting the door to open, but it was apparently locked. The handle reverted to its usual position.
‘Jesus . . .’
Gross heard a rattle in the lock. His finger tightened on his pistol’s trigger. The handle dipped again, but this time the door was gently pushed open.
Shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, he mentally prepared to shoot whoever stepped across the threshold.
Any moment now—
‘Hey!’
The voice was close. To his left.
Gross almost dropped his weapon. He yelped something incomprehensible, stepped to his right and swung his sidearm round to point towards whoever had spoken. But the individual was too swift, grabbing the pistol and easily twisting it from Gross’s hand.