Chapter 7 - The Poisoner's Glove
"Don't look at him, Julian," Claire whispered, her voice dropping into a register of utter calm that caught Marcus’s attention.
Marcus’s finger rested lightly on the trigger. "A brave girl. Truly. If you hadn't been so observant with that plate, you'd be collecting your two-hundred-dollar catering paycheck right now, alive and oblivious."
"If I hadn't looked at the plate," Claire said, taking half a step toward the center of the rug, "Julian would be dead. And you would still be a coward who murders children for a stock portfolio."
"Claire, step back!" Eleanor ordered, trying to shove the young woman behind her. "Marcus, take me! Let the girl and the child go! I will sign whatever power of attorney you need!"
"You know better than that, Eleanor," Finch sighed, flicking the air bubble out of the syringe. "Signatures under duress can be challenged by probate courts. Corpses don't challenge trusts."
Marcus tightened his grip on the Glock. "Enough talk. Clear the line of fire, Finch."
In that fraction of a second, as Marcus’s eyes flickered toward Finch to confirm his position, Claire struck.
She didn't run. She didn't scream.
With all the strength in her young, agile body, Claire grabbed the heavy wrought-iron poker resting inside the brass stand by the hearth. It wasn't an ornament; it was three feet of solid, black iron with a sharp, barbed hook at the end, glowing red-hot from resting against the burning embers.
With a feral cry, Claire swung the glowing iron poker like a baseball bat.
The red-hot tip struck Marcus’s extended right wrist with a sickening sizzle of burning flesh.
Marcus roared in agony, his fingers reflexively opening. The Glock clattered onto the hardwood floor, spinning across the rug toward the sofa.
"Shoot her!" Finch shrieked, dropping the syringe and lunging across the coffee table with a concealed scalpel.
Eleanor Whitmore did not hesitate. The sixty-two-year-old matriarch grabbed the heavy silver teapot filled with boiling chamomile water and hurled it straight into Finch’s face.
The boiling liquid splashed across Finch’s eyes and cheeks. The doctor screamed, stumbling backward into a glass display cabinet, shattering antique porcelain into a thousand razor-sharp shards.
Marcus, clutching his scorched, blistered wrist, spun around, his face contorted in murderous rage. He lunged at Claire with his left fist, striking her across the shoulder and sending her crashing against the low coffee table.
Claire hit the floor hard, the wind knocked completely out of her lungs. Stars exploded behind her eyes.
"You miserable little bitch!" Marcus snarled, lunging forward to crush her throat with his combat boot.
"Marcus!" a boy’s voice shrieked.
Julian scrambled from behind the armchair, grabbed the fallen Glock from the floor with both tiny hands, and pulled the trigger.
The gun fired.
Because Julian couldn't manage the recoil, the muzzle jumped violently. The bullet missed Marcus’s chest, but tore straight through his right kneecap.
Bone shattered with a sound like a snapping dry branch.
Marcus let out a choked howl of agony, collapsing onto the hardwood floor, his ruined knee buckling beneath his weight.
Claire didn't waste a heartbeat. Despite the blinding pain in her shoulder, she rolled across the floor, grabbed the iron poker once more, and brought the blunt end down across the back of Marcus’s neck with every ounce of fury inside her soul.
Marcus’s head bounced against the oak planks. His body went limp, his eyes rolling back into his head as unconsciousness took him.
Across the room, Finch was on his knees among the shattered porcelain, clawing at his blistered, scalded face, weeping hysterically in the dark.
Silence crashed back over the penthouse library, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and the heavy, ragged gasps of three survivors.
Julian stood frozen, the heavy pistol smoking in his tiny, trembling hands.
Eleanor stepped forward slowly. She gently took the weapon from the boy's fingers, clicked the safety on, and pulled Julian into her arms, burying her face into his hair as dry sobs racked her slender frame.
Claire pushed herself up against the coffee table, her ribs aching, her hands shaking so violently she could barely breathe.
She looked at Eleanor.
Eleanor looked up from Julian. The matriarch’s ivory dress was ruined, covered in soot, tea, and blood. Her silver hair hung wild around her shoulders.
For the first time in her life, Eleanor Whitmore looked completely defeated—and entirely human.
"It's over," Claire whispered.
May you like
"No," Eleanor said, her voice trembling as she looked toward the shattered display cabinet where Finch lay whimpering. "It is not over until the world knows what these men did."
***
