Chapter 8 - The Cleaner
I lunged forward, sliding across the grease-stained concrete on my knees, catching the handle of the transport case inches before it smashed against the floor.
The impact jarred my shoulders, but the seals held. Inside, the baby let out a muffled, frantic wail.
Behind Claire’s collapsing body, standing in the shadows of the cargo gate, was a woman dressed in an immaculate charcoal-gray wool coat. She was holding a suppressed semi-automatic pistol, the barrel smoking faintly in the damp basement air.
Diane Vance.
My stepmother.
She lowered the weapon with the relaxed, practiced posture of someone who had spent decades shooting clay pigeons at private country clubs. She didn't look at Claire, who was choking on her own blood on the concrete between us. She looked at me, and then at the case in my arms.
"You always were remarkably fast, Marcus," Diane said, her voice smooth, cultured, and devoid of tremor. "Just like your father when he was young. It's a pity you inherited his stubborn lack of vision."
"Diane," I breathed, rising slowly to my feet, keeping the case tucked behind my body.
"Don't do anything dramatic, darling," she said, taking a step closer. The pistol remained leveled at my chest. "Claire was a loose end. A very messy, emotional loose end. Julian was supposed to handle her hours ago, but Julian has always been an incompetent romantic, much like yourself. He called me from the ICU five minutes ago, crying about his foot."
She sighed, a gentle, exasperated sound, like a mother discussing an unruly child.
"Did you kill my father?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet. "His stroke... that was you, wasn't it?"
Diane smiled faintly, a thin, aristocratic curve of crimson lipstick. "Your father wanted to turn state’s evidence three years ago, Marcus. He realized the people we partnered with in Rotterdam weren't simple shipping merchants. He wanted to go to the FBI and give away fifty years of empire just to clear his conscience before he met his maker. I couldn't allow that. A small dose of digitalis in his morning tea simulated a cerebrovascular accident beautifully. He's been comfortably silent ever since."
"And Elena?"
"Elena was far too clever for her own good," Diane replied, her cold eyes fixing on mine. "She went through the manifestos. She found the offshore accounts. She was an infection in this family, Marcus. And when a limb is infected, you amputate it."
"You won't get out of this hospital, Diane," I said, glancing at the security cameras mounted on the concrete pillars. "The police are already here. Detective Brooks has the death certificates."
"Detective Brooks works for me, Marcus," she chuckled softly, a dry, rattling sound. "Who do you think authorized the transfer of Dr. Sterling’s files? Who do you think turned off the cameras in this loading bay twenty minutes ago?"
My blood ran cold.
"Now," Diane said, raising the gun until the black bore was aligned directly between my eyes. "Set the child on the bumper. Walk over to that pillar, and turn around. You'll be reported as another tragic victim of Claire Bennett's psychotic break. A grieving husband murdered in the basement while trying to save his son."
"You’re going to kill your own grandson?"
May you like
"That child isn't an heir, Marcus," she whispered. "He's an audit."
***
