Page 137 of The Last Kingdom

Rife shoved him back toward one of the many candelabra that dotted the hall. They were each thick, heavy, about eight feet tall and gilded, resting on a tripod of three legs attached to a marble base. He stumbled and staggered, his arms wrapped around his ribs.

Rife stepped back, breathing hard, savoring the moment.

Derrick hit the wood wall hard and slid to the floor. The room expanded and contracted before his eyes, his ribs aching with each breath.

Something had broken.

The guns lay on the floor about twenty feet away. Rife made no attempt to get one. Instead, he just stood, rubbing his sore jaw, assuming the role of victor.

“You should not have killed Terry,” Rife said. “You should not have done that at all.”

“He was…a…traitor. Like…you.”

His left arm nursed the ribs, his right palm resting on the wood floor. A candelabra stood right in front of him. He kept breathing hard and made sure Rife knew he was in pain.

Which wasn’t hard. ’Cause he was.

“You’ve always been a pain in the ass,” Rife spit out. “But I’m goin’ to do everyone a favor and end that right now.”

Rife advanced on what he thought to be fallen prey. Derrick fought the pain and steeled himself. That was the thing about not being twenty anymore. You were a hell of a lot smarter.Come on. Closer.A drop of sweat slid in a slow track from his forehead to his chin, tickling his face.

Closer. Closer.

Every muscle in his body grew taut.

Rife came within range.

His right leg swung up and he planted the heel of his shoe on the stout gilded stem, shoving the heavy candelabra over.

Rife never saw it coming until it was too late.

The candelabra crashed into him. Rife tried to stop it, bringing both arms up, but its weight and momentum were more than enough to push back and take him down to the floor.

Derrick gritted his teeth, rolled, and came to his feet.

Rife wrestled with the candelabra, trying to get it off him.

Six steps and he found one of the guns.

Rife managed to push the candelabra away and tried to stand.

Derrick shot him in the chest.

The sharp bark echoed through the hall and hurt his ears.

Rife collapsed, his head lolled to one side, and a small gurgling noise seeped from his throat. A thin trickle of blood crawled down from the corner of his mouth. More blood spewed out in a violent exhale. A few spasms. A cough. The eyes glared at him, one moment with life, the next all gone. Muscle gave way and the flesh and bones settled on the floor.

In death.

End of problem.

He’d not even fired a gun in several years outside of range practice. But tonight he’d already killed two with one.

He needed to get back to Malone. Surely the shots had been heard. He turned and headed out of the hall by way of a long side corridor, one arm cradling his ribs. Windows opened to the castle’s exterior facing toward the path they’d used to enter earlier. He stopped a moment and gazed out to the night. Bright halogen lights lit the castle walls and the path below.

He caught sight of people. Walking away.

Fenn. Two other men, following Malone at gunpoint. The Duke of Bavaria. What was he doing here? And the last face. Chinese. Walking with a cane. Who was he? They all seemed chummy, except for Malone, and were leaving in a hurry. He shook his head. However he placed the pieces on the board, they added up to the same conclusion.

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