Page 104 of Silent Schemes
A final touch. A goodbye.
Hope flares and dies in the same instant.
Even if his men come, it might be too late.
I shoot.
Three times, the reports echoing in the warehouse like thunder.
The sound is deafening in the enclosed space, and Maya screams despite her training.
The bullets hit clustered over his heart but slightly to the right—through the lung, not the heart.
Painful, bloody, but not immediately fatal if treated quickly.
If someone knows exactly where to shoot to look fatal while buying time.
Varrick falls, blood spreading across his shirt like spilled wine, pooling on the concrete.
His eyes flutter closed, body going limp.
The performance is perfect.
He knows how to play dead—we practiced it once, a game that turned into foreplay.
The memory makes me want to vomit.
Will screams—a sound of pure anguish—and rushes forward. "You bitch! You fucking?—"
Vincent shoots him—shoulder first, spinning him around like a discarded toy, then chest, dropping him beside Varrick.
Will's blood mingles with Varrick's, two generations of power bleeding out on my father's killing floor.
Will's hand reaches for Varrick, falls just short, a gap of inches that might as well be miles.
Father starts forward to verify the kill, but I block him, standing over Varrick's body like a guardian even now.
"My kill," I say firmly, possession clear in every syllable. "I verify it."
He pauses, perhaps surprised by the possessiveness in my voice.
But then he nods, allowing me this small victory.
After all, what does it matter?
The King is dead. Or dying. Close enough.
I kneel beside Varrick, my knees in his blood, warm and spreading.
My hands go to his throat as if checking for a pulse.
To everyone watching, I'm confirming the death.
But my fingers find the beat of his heart, still strong despite the blood loss, and I lean close as if examining the wounds.
"North wall, eight men, two with rifles," I whisper, my lips barely moving, speaking directly into his ear like a lover's secret. "South exit blocked, four men. Vincent has a second gun, ankle holster. My father’s wearing a vest. Sixty seconds until they relax. Your brothers know—I sent them coordinates. Stay down.Play dead. Live for our—" I stop myself before saying 'baby.' "Live."
His eyes flicker open for just a moment, meeting mine.
