Chapter 6 - Blood on White Petals
The peace lasted exactly until three o'clock in the morning.
A muffled *pop* echoed from the lower terrace, followed by the high-pitched chirp of a tripped perimeter alarm.
Kent woke instantly. He rolled out of the bed in his private master suite, moving with the silent, fluid speed of a soldier. June stirred beside him, blinking in the moonlight that spilled across the tangled silk sheets.
“Kent?” she murmured, sitting up.
“Stay in bed,” Kent commanded, already pulling on his trousers and grabbing his sidearm from the nightstand. “Walsh’s radio is silent. That means the comms have been jammed.”
Before June could reply, the heavy bedroom door splintered inward with a deafening crash.
Two men in black tactical gear burst into the room, their suppressed submachine guns sweeping toward the bed.
Kent didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee, firing twice with deadly accuracy. The first man collapsed instantly, his weapon clattering across the floorboards. The second shooter spun toward Kent, firing a wild burst that chewed through the headboard and sent feathers flying from the pillows.
June screamed, rolling off the far side of the bed onto the floor.
Kent lunged forward, closing the distance before the shooter could re-aim. He slammed his forearm into the man’s throat, driving him against the wall, then twisted the weapon from his grasp with a sickening snap of bone. A single strike from Kent’s pistol grip silenced the intruder.
Silence descended again, thick with the smell of cordite and blood.
“June!” Kent shouted, spinning around.
June was on her knees behind the heavy mahogany dresser, her hands clasped over her ears, trembling violently. Kent was across the room in two strides, pulling her into his arms, lifting her to her feet.
“Are you hit? Tell me!” Kent’s voice was wild, panicked—an emotion Walsh had never heard from his boss in fifteen years.
“I’m okay... I’m okay,” she choked out, burying her face into his neck. “Kent, your shoulder!”
Kent looked down. A dark stain was spreading across the left shoulder of his white shirt where a ricochet had grazed his flesh.
“It’s nothing,” he hissed, checking the corridor. “Marcus bypassed the gate. He came through the underground service tunnel from the old boiler house.”
Footsteps were pounding up the grand staircase. Kent reloaded his weapon, his face transformed into an engine of cold, absolute destruction.
“Take this,” Kent said, handing June the second shooter’s dropped sidearm. “You know how the safety works. If the door opens and it isn't me or Walsh, you pull the trigger until it stops clicking.”
“Where are you going?” she cried, clutching his forearm.
“To end this,” Kent replied, kissing her forehead with fierce, bruising intensity. “Marcus made his last mistake when he stepped into this room.”
Kent stepped into the hallway, moving toward the stairs like a shadow.
Down in the great hall, the chandelier was dark. Muzzle flashes lit up the portraits of Gallagher ancestors in strobe-like bursts. Walsh was pinned behind the marble balustrade, returning fire with a shotgun against four of Marcus’s harbor mercenaries.
Kent appeared on the mezzanine balcony above them.
He didn't seek cover. He fired with rhythmic, terrifying precision. One. Two. Three.
Each shot found its mark. Three mercenaries dropped in their tracks. The fourth threw his rifle down and dove toward the front vestibule, scrambling for the exit.
“Walsh!” Kent shouted over the railing.
“I’m clear, boss!” Walsh called out, limping out from behind the pillar, his sleeve torn but his eyes burning. “Miller’s holding the kitchen. Marcus is in the courtyard. He’s got an armored van!”
Kent raced down the stairs, three steps at a time. He burst through the main doors onto the circular gravel drive.
The rain had turned to sleet, coating the estate in a slick sheen of ice. A heavy black transport van was idling by the fountain, its tires spinning on the gravel.
Marcus Gallagher stood near the passenger door, holding a heavy submachine gun, screaming orders at his driver. When he saw Kent emerge into the floodlights, Marcus froze.
“You’re supposed to be dead!” Marcus screamed, raising the weapon.
Kent didn't dive for cover. He walked straight toward Marcus through the falling sleet, his pistol raised.
“You couldn't kill me when I was a boy, Marcus,” Kent said, his voice slicing through the roar of the van’s engine. “And you certainly can’t kill me tonight.”
Marcus pulled the trigger.
The gun jammed. A dull *click* echoed off the stone facade.
Marcus frantically racked the bolt, his eyes bulging with animal terror. “Damn it! Move! Drive!”
Kent reached the van before the driver could engage the transmission. He fired through the driver’s side window, shattering the glass and disabling the controls. Then he grabbed Marcus by the collar, dragging him backward through the sleet and slamming him down onto the frozen gravel.
Marcus lay on his back, gasping, blood pooling from a split lip.
Kent stood over him, the muzzle of his gun pressed against Marcus’s forehead.
“Wait... Kent, wait!” Marcus begged, his hands clawing at the icy stones. “We’re cousins! Eleanor was my aunt! She wouldn't want you to kill family!”
“Eleanor,” Kent whispered, his voice trembling with a fury so deep it chilled the air around them, “is dead because of your poison. You murdered her in her own bed, Marcus. And now, you answer to me.”
A voice cut through the courtyard.
“Kent!”
Kent paused, his finger tightening on the trigger.
June stood on the limestone steps of the mansion, wrapped in an oversized trench coat, the sleet whipping her auburn hair across her pale face. She didn't shout. She didn't beg for Marcus’s life.
“Don’t do it in the dark,” she called out, her voice clear and steady across the courtyard. “Let the council see him crawl. Let Chicago know what he did. Don't let his blood stain this house any more than it already has.”
Kent looked at June. He saw the strength in her eyes, the fierce morality that refused to let him become the very monster Marcus was.
Slowly, Kent lowered the gun.
He kicked Marcus in the ribs, flipping him onto his stomach.
“Walsh,” Kent commanded.
“Yes, boss?” Walsh appeared from the side entrance, zip-ties in hand.
May you like
“Call every district capo. Call Judge Holloway. Call the federal prosecutor Eleanor had on retainer.” Kent stepped back, wiping sleet from his brow. “Tell them court is in session at five in the morning. And Marcus Gallagher is on the docket.”
***
