Chapter 8 - The Weight of the Bloodline
I rolled away just as Mark brought the butt of the pistol down toward my skull. The steel grazed my ear, tearing the skin and hot blood began to stream down my neck, mixing with the cold autumn sweat.
“You little bastard!” Mark snarled, his breath hot and sour as he scrambled to his knees, his fingers frantically searching the grass for the dropped weapon that had skidded into the flower bed.
Across the lawn, Caroline had already reached the rental car. She hauled the rear door open wide, scooped Ethan up into her arms as if he weighed nothing at all, and began sprinting toward the rear boundary of the property—toward the thick patch of woods that bordered the old county creek.
“Caroline!” Mark roared, abandoning his search for the gun and lunging toward his own car door to grab a heavier weapon from the floorboards.
I didn't let him reach it. Pushing past the blinding pain in my ribs, I threw myself forward, grabbing the back of his denim jacket and yanking him backward with a desperation that defied my injuries.
We crashed hard against the open door of the black sedan, the metal groaning under our combined weight. Mark spun around with terrifying speed, his hand lashing out and catching me across the jaw. The impact sent a shockwave through my teeth, and I tasted the metallic tang of copper flooding my mouth.
“You should have stayed out of it, boy,” Mark hissed, his fingers closing around my throat in a crushing, one-handed grip that cut off my air supply instantly. Spots danced in front of my eyes. The night air turned thick, heavy, and black at the edges.
“Let… him… go,” a voice rasped from the darkness behind the car.
Mark froze. His grip on my throat slackened just enough for me to drag a ragged gasp of air into my burning lungs.
Slowly, step by cautious step, a figure emerged from the shadow of the garage. It was Arthur, holding a heavy iron tire iron in his right hand, his face bruised and bleeding from whatever had happened down in the basement.
“Artie?” Mark spat, his eyes narrowing with bitter betrayal. “You stupid old fool. I should have put a bullet in you when I cleaned out the safe.”
“Maybe you should have,” Arthur muttered, his voice deadpan and steady as he raised the heavy iron bar. “But you didn't. And right now, the feds are already swarming Victor’s downtown office. They’ll be at this address in less than ten minutes. The game is over, Mark.”
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Mark’s eyes darted from Arthur to me, then back toward the dark patch of woods where Caroline and Ethan had vanished into the heavy brush. A cold, calculating smile twisted his lips.
“The game’s only over when everyone stops breathing,” Mark whispered. With a sudden, violent twist, he shoved me away, sending me sprawling hard onto the gravel, and dove into the driver's seat of his sedan.
