Page 138 of The Darkest Hour

“It was. I found him in his home—an estate out in the wilderness. Perhaps, he’d been hoping to hide.”

“But one can’t hide from Havoc.”

“Unfortunately, they cannot.” He winked at me. “The old rich man sat in a plush armchair. Although it was late in the evening, he still had on a tailored suit. He’d been reading a small book in his home library. I remember thinking that the space was too nice of one to kill in. Tall mahogany bookshelves lined the walls and were filled to the brim with leather-bound books.”

“That does sound nice.”

“The surgeon sat next to a small table holding a reading lamp and an extra pair of glasses.”

“Do you remember what book he was reading?”

“The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell. I know this because after I was done, I took the thin copy with me.”

“What’s the story about?”

“It’s a tale about a famous hunter who becomes shipwrecked on an island.” Havoc looked off in the distant as if reliving the memory. “And. . .eventually he is hunted by a wealthy person on that island.”

A cold chill ran up my body. “That’s creepy.”

“It is, but the story was excellent.”

“I would ask more about it, but it is too close to home right now.”

“It damn sure is. I wonder if God was trying to give me a clue long ago.”

I smirked.

“Anyway. . .the surgeon had a final request too.”

“What did he want?”

“He asked if he could smoke a cigar before I killed him, and I figured, why not? We had time. So I even went to his small bar in the corner of the room and poured us both a glass of whiskey to go with it.”

“Not a bad time at all.”

“And not a bad glass of whiskey. Very elegant and expensive.” Havoc let out a long breath. “Then, he handed me a cigar and I lit both of them. My cigar was thick and dark, with a smooth, oily wrapper and a tightly packed body. Its tip glowed a vibrant orange when I took a drag and I knew that it must have cost a good bit of money.”

I watched him completely enthralled with the story.

“Even now, I can smell the cigar’s rich, earthy aroma mixed with notes of leather and spice. Strong, but not too overwhelming. The scent of luxury.”

I smiled.

“It was then, while we smoked our luxurious cigars and sipped glasses of expensive whiskey, that he smiled at me and said he was seventy-six years old. And that smile was huge.”

For some reason, this light-hearted warmth hit me.

“And he went on to proclaim that he’d truly lived his life.”

“Wow.”

“He told me about the five times that he had fallen in love. He went on about the science-fiction books he’d secretly written under a penname and how they’d been successful reads.”

“Oh damn.”

“He even boasted about his travel. The man visited over fifty countries.”

“He’s right. He truly did live.”

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